


DumpsterFire.txt

by unrestedjade



Category: Undertale
Genre: F/M, M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn Without Plot, Problematic Themes ahoy, Reader Beware, come warm your hands at the dumpster fire my friend, content advisories in each chapter, porn with a stupid plot, stupid porn, various kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-07-21 15:48:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7393618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unrestedjade/pseuds/unrestedjade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A place for requests and one-shots that have sexual content and aren't suitable for younger eyes. Various pairings and scenarios, same flagrant lack of editing as the mild version. Advisories posted in chapter notes, so please pay attention to them! NSFW, possibly not safe for brain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Report (Mettaton/Papyrus)

**Author's Note:**

> For 7th-sinner, who wanted non-AU Papyton angst. I don't actually know if this fits the prompt all the well, actually. I mean, a neutral ending isn't an AU, and the neutral endings have sort of built-in angst, and Metta's not, like, a mustache-twirling villain here, so...
> 
> "If you could throw in a little bit of smut in there it would be great, but it's not necessary." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For 7th-sinner, who wanted non-AU Papyton angst. I don't actually know if this fits the prompt all the well, actually. I mean, a neutral ending isn't an AU, and the neutral endings have sort of built-in angst, and Metta's not, like, a mustache-twirling villain here, so...
> 
> "If you could throw in a little bit of smut in there it would be great, but it's not necessary." That means 12 pages of bondage porn, right? I really hope so, 'cause otherwise I have some bad news.
> 
> Contains: soul sex, light rope bondage, superior/subordinate relationship and the attendant possible power imbalance, Mettaton being the world's mopiest dictator.

Mettaton shifted to sit on his knees, hunching over the expansive desktop, eye and targeting reticle both blurring over the lines he was reading. A smaller desk with a smaller chair would have been more comfortable, but it felt blasphemous to alter a single stick of furniture in this room. The rest of the Underground, he'd readily changed to better suit its current leader. This office was kept as he'd found it-- as a memorial of sorts, and a reminder of what had been lost.

 

The one-year anniversary of that terrible tragedy loomed in the near future, only a month away. And so Mettaton found himself besieged with paperwork encompassing every detail of the coming event. Requisitions and requests, schedules, proposals, budget spreadsheets…

 

It would be inaccurate and inappropriate to call it a festival, but the monsters of the Underground needed...something. Some acknowledgment that they were beginning to heal, recognition for their year of hard work.

 

Mettaton had asked a lot of them over the months, he knew. Order had to be reestablished in the wake of Asgore's murder, the loss of half the Royal Guard including its captain, and the many seemingly-random civilian deaths that had sowed terror and anxiety through the population.

 

There had also been some push-back to Mettaton's stepping up to lead, borne of fear of change and stubborn clinging to tradition. Bumps in the road that had to be smoothed out.

 

Unpleasant, but necessary.

 

They had to pick up the pieces. They had to keep moving. They had to take hold of their destiny. But in a month's time, there would be a reprieve. They had all earned this.

 

All the same, it was tiring.

 

Brisk footsteps rang on the tiles outside the double doors. Mettaton knew who it was well before the voice announced itself. He knew that walk. Exhaustion loosened its grip on his frame.

 

“Enter,” he called. Static fuzzed his voice synthesizer. Had he spoken at all today? Possibly not, since he'd been cooped up in this office since early morning. He straightened his back, joints popping and servomotors grinding into reluctant motion.

 

Goodness, he would fall apart at this rate! He hoped he didn't look too run down. At least the lighting in this room was mercifully dim.

 

Like Mettaton himself, Papyrus saw little reason not to open both doors at once and did so with a flourish. Mettaton looked up from his work to admire his agent's trim figure, silhouetted in the brighter light of the corridor outside.

 

“You're back.” Mettaton rose from his chair, a warm smile sliding over his lips. “Do come in, Papyrus, dear,” he said, somewhat unnecessarily as Papyrus was already halfway across the room. Mettaton stepped out from behind his desk to meet him.

 

“I am!” Papyrus looked fresh as a daisy despite the late hour and his recent travel. Crisp and neat-- not a stitch out of place, as always. “Miss me?”

 

“Every day was an eternity, darling.”

 

“Ha! Naturally,” Papyrus said, beaming. “I missed you, too,” he added, as though it were an obvious fact that hardly bore mentioning.

 

Mettaton's cooling fans stuttered. It had indeed been a very long week without his right-hand monster. Belatedly, he noticed that the left hand monster was still missing. “And your brother?”

 

Papyrus shrugged. “Still at his desk,” he said, “Er...sleeping, not working, I'm afraid. I have his report, too.” He held up the folders he was carrying. “He may have drooled on it a bit, but I'm sure it's dry by now.”

 

“Thank you, Papyrus.” Mettaton took the proffered folders. More to read. Always more to read, more to sign off on. Well, he supposed he couldn't complain. He'd taken on this role willingly-- forcefully, even-- along with the less glamorous parts that came with it.

 

Papyrus followed his gaze to the stacks of papers and folders already on the desk. “Looks like you've got a long night ahead of you,” he said, sympathetic. “You don't have to worry about this right now. I didn't realize you were so busy.”

 

“No, no, it's quite alright.” Mettaton led him back around the desk. He set the folders aside and sat down, pulling Papyrus into his lap. There was more than enough room for two; the chair had been meant for a much larger monster, after all. “Why don't you give me the highlights for now?”

 

Papyrus laughed, and arranged himself more comfortably to straddle Mettaton's thighs. “Okay,” he said, draping his arms loosely around Mettaton's shoulders. “Where should I start?”

 

Basking in Papyrus' open smile and his now-familiar aura, Mettaton sighed happily. “Start at the start, darling,” he said, tapping the end of the skeleton's nasal bone with one finger. His headache was already beginning to ease.

 

“I suppose that's reasonable.” Papyrus set one gloved forefinger against his teeth, humming quietly to himself. Mettaton stilled his fans to better hear it. “Well,” Papyrus said, “to begin with, that cavern we found goes back a lot farther than the advance scout thought. It took some excavating in a few spots to get through, but it's a couple miles long.”

 

“How interesting,” Mettaton said, unbuttoning Papyrus' suit jacket and easing it off his shoulders. “Could it be settled, do you suppose?”

 

The Underground, lamentably, wasn't quite as packed after that miserable human cut a swath through it, but it was still overcrowded. Mettaton had commissioned expeditions to find new habitable caverns to give the populace room to spread out while they mustered their forces. A mountain was massive, to be sure, but given enough time and enough bodies living and multiplying beneath it, it was feeling very small indeed.

 

The search wasn't bearing much fruit. Over the centuries, nearly every useable space had already been found and exploited. Papyrus had spent the last week following up on the most promising lead they'd had all year.

 

Papyrus frowned, shrugging out of the jacket. “Maybe by small monsters,” he said. “Blobs or froggits. Nothing much larger.” He sighed, as though the failure were his fault. “It's narrow, and the ceilings are so low there are places I can't even stand up straight. The excavator crew says it can't be widened much more than they already have without risking a cave-in. Sorry.”

 

“It can't be helped, darling.” Mettaton tossed the jacket aside. He would have the staff clean and press it later; hanging it up properly would require he stand, and standing meant dislodging Papyrus, and _that_ wasn't happening anytime soon.

 

“It's just disappointing,” Papyrus said, frowning. “After all the work everyone did.” For the briefest moment, an undiluted weariness passed over his face, there and gone so fast Mettaton could almost dismiss it as a trick of the light.

 

Mettaton loosened the knot on Papyrus' tie. “I know, dear. So many dead ends...” It had been a long week for all of them. A long year.

 

Papyrus raised a hand to cup Mettaton's cheek, his claws a faint hint beyond the supple black leather of his glove. Mettaton covered the hand with his own, stroking Papyrus' knuckles with his thumb. It was tempting to press into that sharpness, to feel those five delicate points bite into metal and soft plastic. But Papyrus was tired, however he tried to hide it. There would be time for such things later.

 

Besides, it would be a pity to make him rip his lovely gloves.

 

As a monster without lips, kissing was an act that would never be in Papyrus' repertoire, but he leaned in now to nuzzle the side of Mettaton's face. The simple act never failed to undo him in a way he doubted any kiss could replicate-- the tenderness of it, the soft slide and pressure that asked for nothing in return.

 

Mettaton was quite capable of kissing, but for now he answered Papyrus' show of affection in kind, turning his face to rub against an angular cheekbone. He wondered at the soothing coolness of the bones against his cheek, and remembered that his fans were still switched off. They whirred back into motion, hot air gusting from his vents.

 

Papyrus chuckled against the juncture of jaw and throat, and any embarrassment Mettaton might have felt about letting himself overheat passed like a mushroom spore on the breeze. Especially when Papyrus' canines caught and scraped over the cables of his throat just so.

 

With a happy sigh, Mettaton tipped his head back, exposing more of his neck to his agent's gentle attentions. Tempting, tempting, to just sit here and let Papyrus soothe away every last shred of tension he'd built up over the week.

 

His darling was worn out, however. Mettaton could feel it in Papyrus' posture and in his aura, warm and light but gone tattered at the margins. He worked so hard.

 

After a moment's more indulgence, Mettaton lay a hand on Papyrus' chest and pushed him gently away. His resolve weakened at the sight of the confusion passing like a cloud over Papyrus' face, but he would persevere. “What else, darling?” Curving an arm around Papyrus' hips to steady him, Mettaton leaned over to fish a length of red ribbon from a lower desk drawer.

 

“Well,” Papyrus said, perking up again once it became clear that Mettaton was merely redirecting him, not rebuffing him. “An aquifer crosses the cavern about halfway in,” he said, lifting his arms out of the way without Mettaton having to ask. He knew this routine well.

 

Mettaton wove the ribbon around Papyrus' chest with practiced motions. “Fresh water is always a good find,” he said, adding the loops and twists that would distribute tension evenly and make the harness pretty to look at.

 

Papyrus watched him work with calm familiarity. “Yes! And it could lead to another cavern system. Possibly,” he said, obligingly crossing his arms behind his back when Mettaton prompted him. “We're trying not to get our hopes up too high, but it's worth looking into.”

 

“Yes,” Mettaton said, winding the ribbon around Papyrus' forearms. “You've always had a gift for keeping morale up, darling.” His own spirits were much higher now that his agent was back home. Papyrus was a bright spot in his life, had been even before their working relationship had evolved in a more...personal direction. He was a wellspring of enthusiasm and energy, loyal and supportive and _good_ in a way most monsters weren't.

 

“We found a few promising skylights, too.” Papyrus leaned forward a bit to let Mettaton see over his shoulder more easily. “Sunlight, and everything! It's very pretty.”

 

“Really?” Mettaton lit up at the news. That was wonderful! More openings to the surface meant more possible entrances for humans. It was anyone's guess if the 'fan club' ruse would work, but Mettaton had done his best to assure the last human that there was nothing dangerous under the mountain. Bygones, and all that... “That's fantastic, dear. Excellent work, as always.”

 

“I'll oversee the installation of the spike traps myself,” Papyrus said, chest puffing a little in pride.

 

“I would trust no one better.” His darling was actually quite mechanically inclined.

 

And no, that wasn't innuendo. Mostly.

 

Minutes passed in companionable silence. Mettaton let it pass, tying off the ends of the ribbon and checking his work to make sure the harness wasn't digging into Papyrus' joints. “Are you comfortable, darling? It's not too tight?” He plucked at the ribbon, testing the knots. They held firm.

 

“Oh, I'm fine,” Papyrus said, but his smile didn't quite reach his eye sockets.

 

Mettaton frowned. “What's wrong?”

 

“Nothing. It's silly.”

 

“It can't be silly if it has you worried, Papyrus.” His darling had a great deal of confidence, as well he should, but that didn't mean he was immune to insecurities. Mettaton did his best to banish them as soon as they showed themselves. “What is it?”

 

Papyrus stared down at the glow of Mettaton's soul in its clear housing, “The spikes, and the pitfalls, and all the rest of it,” he said, referring to the anti-human measures that Mettaton tasked him with installing in every area by which a human could enter the Underground. “I know it's for everyone's safety-- I do-- but it feels so...” He shrugged, his shirt bunching under the layers of ribbon. “It doesn't seem very sporting, that's all.”

 

Mettaton sighed. “Always such a gentleman.”

 

When he'd first met Papyrus, Mettaton had marveled at how any monster could reach adulthood while retaining such a profound naivety. Monsters were predisposed to a certain degree of innocence, true-- their souls thrived on hope and compassion. But Papyrus was almost childlike in this regard. Not that he was stupid, of course, but he tended toward extending the benefit of the doubt when common sense might caution otherwise. It made Mettaton worry, sometimes.

 

“I was just thinking,” Papyrus said, hesitant, “that if a _good_ human were to fall down-”

 

“Good humans have no reason to climb this mountain,” Mettaton said, attempting to cut off this train of thought before Papyrus upset himself. “If even other _humans_ don't want them around, imagine how awful and dangerous they must be.”

 

“But couldn't we test them somehow, just in case? I could-”

 

“I'm sorry, darling, but I won't hear it.” Mettaton put a finger to Papyrus' mouth to shush him. “It just isn't worth risking you. Or anyone else,” he added, as an afterthought. They'd already lost enough. He wouldn't let it happen again. No human was worth that.

 

Mettaton reached up to massage Papyrus' neck, working his fingers over each vertebra like the beads of a rosary.

 

Quite frankly, any human that fell down here was simply a soul to be harvested. Good or bad, it didn't matter in the slightest. Their king had understood this difficult truth, willingly becoming a murderer for the sake of his people's freedom. Mettaton would do no less. He would do more, in fact.

 

Not that he intended to be a cruel ruler on the surface, but humanity would fear him as much as they loved him. He'd make sure of that. Dr. Alphys had built his body to serve the aims of both himself and the king. Now, those aims were one and the same.

 

Papyrus didn't understand, and a large part of Mettaton didn't want him to. He couldn't bring himself to dim that light even slightly. Not when he needed it so much.

 

Papyrus leaned back into Mettaton's hand. “Okay,” he sighed, relenting.

 

Mettaton knew better than to assume Papyrus had given up. The discussion had merely been tabled for a later time. They had an unspoken agreement not to argue at times like these, and Mettaton wouldn't press the issue. It could wait.

 

Seeking to regain some of their lost momentum, Mettaton toyed with the harness, tracing the geometric patterns it made over Papyrus' torso. “Anything else?”

 

“I did write a very thorough report.” If Papyrus was going for mock-irritation, he fell short of the mark, grinning and leaning into Mettaton's petting. Of his many strengths, acting wasn't one of them. His earnestness was one of his most attractive features, in fact.

 

“I'm sure it's impeccable, darling,” Mettaton said, undoing the buttons on Papyrus' shirt-- a task that was easier said than done, thanks to the ribbon. “But surely the entire week didn't make it into that report, did it?” There had been no radio or cell reception in that cavern. A whole week without hearing his darling's voice had Mettaton wanting Papyrus to keep talking, even if it was about mundane things.

 

He opened the shirt as much as possible with it being essentially tied down, which wasn't much. The view was enjoyable regardless, a tantalizing stripe of exposed chest and the glimmer of a soul hidden within.

 

“Hmm.” Papyrus gazed off to the side as he thought back over the week. “There's some flowers growing under the skylights that I haven't seen before. I tried to bring one back with me, but it wilted...” He trailed off, shivering under Mettaton's hands.

 

“Flowers have a distressing habit of doing that. It's a shame.” One of many fragile things down here. Mettaton tugged the shirttails out of the way and ran his fingertips over the arch of Papyrus' hip, following its curve to the base of his spine, savoring the breath of a moan this elicited. “I'm sure it was pretty.”

 

“It was pink,” Papyrus said, breathy and soft. “Made me think of you.”

 

Mettaton pulled him close, laying kisses along his jaw. Impossible not to, after hearing that. Their auras tangled together at the edges, a feeling like static charge building at the points where Papyrus pressed against him.

 

“They'll have to be dug up to make way for the spikes,” Papyrus went on, voice gone a bit shaky. He paused to give Mettaton another of those lovely nuzzles. “Maybe I could try to...oh…to transplant them…?”

 

“Perhaps,” Mettaton said, smiling against Papyrus' jaw. Only Papyrus would consider the fate of the flowers that grew in the way of one of his death traps. Mettaton pushed the loosened tie and the open collar of Papyrus' shirt aside to kiss his collarbones, admiring the faint but growing glow of the skeleton's soul within his chest. The culmination of everything Papyrus was, shining like the heart of a distant star.

 

His darling. His greatest comfort.

 

Papyrus relaxed in Mettaton's arms, letting the robot support his meager weight. His collarbones were a sensitive spot. He gasped as Mettaton dragged his tongue along the length of one clavicle. “T-they might grow in the courtyard,” he said, breathless save for the fact that he didn't truly have any breath to lose.

 

Pink flowers in the courtyard, slowly overtaking the gold. Pink like Mettaton. “Oh, I like that idea very much,” Mettaton said, grinning.

 

“Thought you would...”

 

It was easy enough to hold Papyrus up with one arm. With the other, he caressed a long, slim leg, enjoying the softness of the wool and the solidity of the femur underneath. He worked his way up to the join of thigh and pelvis, pushing his thumb into the cup-like socket of Papyrus' hip past the resistance of fabric and magic. Papyrus shuddered hard enough to rattle, murmuring something Mettaton couldn't catch.

 

Papyrus' magic naturally pooled around his joints to hold him together in the absence of sinew and muscle. This made his joints especially sensitive, vulnerable. Not unlike a robot, in that respect. They often exploited this similarity between their bodies. Papyrus could do exceedingly clever things with his hands, slender fingers slipping between the seams of Mettaton's armor plating and into the gaps of his joints to tweak wiring and stroke cable bundles gently. Or not so gently, as it happened.

 

But there would be time for that later.

 

“I really did miss you terribly, you know,” Mettaton said, mouth down-turned in perfect seriousness.

 

Papyrus smiled. “I k-know.”

 

The capitol had felt so dreary with Papyrus gone. As one of Mettaton's primary agents, he was gone quite a lot, but that didn't make his absence any easier to deal with. On the contrary-- as the year progressed, it became more and more unpleasant to see Papyrus off on assignment, knowing it would be days before his return.

 

If there were some way Mettaton could keep him in New Home on a permanent basis… But no. Papyrus was one of the strongest monsters remaining in the Underground. He was too vital to keep shut away in the castle. Besides, his darling was the sort of person who needed a job, needed to feel useful and important. He would only be unhappy following along at Mettaton's heels with nothing to do.

 

Still, it was an appealing notion. As the weeks stretched into months, Mettaton found himself withdrawing from public life, spending more and more time within the castle walls and speaking to his fans-- now subjects-- almost exclusively from in front of a camera. He was gregarious by nature, but rather than energizing him as it once did, interacting with most monsters only drained him. They needed too much, asked too much. They were too discontent, despite his best efforts. Ungrateful.

 

He gave voice to none of this, of course. No need to worry Papyrus with problems he couldn't solve.

 

...Oh, but he was being ridiculous! Now wasn't the time for such maudlin thoughts. Not when his darling was home after a whole week apart.

 

“Mettaton?”

 

Mettaton looked up to meet Papyrus' concerned stare. “Hmm?”

 

Papyrus frowned, brows knitting. “Are you feeling alright?”

 

“Fine, darling, I'm fine.” Mettaton drew his legs up to sit cross-legged, coiling his arms around Papyrus tightly. “I suppose I've just been a bit lonely, that's all.”

 

Papyrus' soul had banked somewhat, glowing candlelight soft. Mettaton lay his head on Papyrus' chest to be closer to it. He focused on the gentle light peeking from between smooth, white ribs and red ribbon where the skeleton's shirt gapped open. His poor darling had to be getting a bit frustrated with all this starting and stopping.

 

“Lonely?” If Papyrus was confused, Mettaton would hardly blame him. There were thousands of monsters in New Home, and the castle alone had no shortage of staff. Papyrus couldn't hug him at the moment, but he rested his chin atop Mettaton's head. He sighed, aura reaching out to drench Mettaton in ethereal warmth. “I'm here now, though, right?”

 

Mettaton shivered, his own aura twining with Papyrus'. His soul stirred inside its chamber as if calling to its counterpart. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, you are.” He pressed a kiss to Papyrus' sternum, relishing the way it made the light flare a little brighter. Taking his time, he kissed a trail from sternum to collarbones, and from there to the column of Papyrus' neck.

 

Yes. His darling was right here. Mettaton had spent too much time this week inside his own head, with only his thoughts for company.

 

Papyrus was a ready and willing distraction. Bound as he was, he could do little to reciprocate Mettaton's attentions, and that was fine. His responsiveness was rewarding enough for now, gasping at each kiss and teasing nibble. He wriggled in Mettaton's arms, pushing closer. Now that they were done talking it seemed his patience had run out.

 

“I'm sorry, darling,” Mettaton said, loosening the coils of his arms to run his hands along the bottom of Papyrus' ribcage. “How cruel of me to keep you waiting.”

 

“Not...ah...not criticizing...”

 

Papyrus' soul grew slowly but steadily brighter as Mettaton stroked his ribs through his shirt. While Mettaton enjoyed the contrast in texture between the crisp cotton and the bands of satin ribbon, the limited contact wasn't enough for Papyrus. He wasn't shy about making the issue known, either.

 

“You don't need to go slow on my account.” Papyrus spoke the words casually, but the rasp in his voice gave him away.

 

Grinning, Mettaton shifted the smooth metal of his coils along Papyrus' hips, relishing the way his agent twitched. “Now you're criticizing, darling,” he chided, lightening his touch to ghost his fingertips down along ribs and the graceful arch of Papyrus' lower back.

 

A needy whine slipped from Papyrus' throat. He always made the loveliest noises. Mettaton would have liked to draw this part out further, to hear more of those little gasps and whimpers, but it seemed Papyrus would have none of that tonight. With a strangled snarl, he ground against Mettaton brazenly, demanding.

 

Mettaton laughed, low and purring. “I love it when you get pushy.” His cooling fans stuttered when Papyrus dipped his head to nip at his neck cabling, the sharp pinch of his teeth sending shivers down Mettaton's backstruts. That was poor incentive to get him to hurry up, but he supposed that mercy was the better part of valor.

 

Tightening his coils once more, Mettaton ran one hand up the inside of his sternum in a firm stroke.

 

Papyrus bucked in his grip. “Ah-h…!”

 

“You did want me to get on with it, didn't you, darling?” With the same steady pressure, Mettaton rubbed along the inner surfaces of Papyrus' ribcage. The bones were rarely touched from inside, and their proximity to the skeleton's soul made them particularly sensitive.

 

“M-mettaton...” Papyrus shuddered, reeling at the sudden intensity. His soul glowed through the white shirt, an obscene lantern backlighting the criss-cross patterns of the harness and the bones hidden beneath the fabric. Bright enough to read by, if Mettaton had cared to waste his time on work while a far more urgent matter writhed in his embrace.

 

Gently now, Mettaton reached inside with his free hand to smooth his palm over that bright, inviting soul.

 

Papyrus groaned, a shudder running down his spine to his thighs. The ribbon slid over his chest as he struggled-- reflex, not an attempt to free himself. A single word could untie the harness whenever he wished, and so Mettaton could enjoy the image of his darling fighting his bonds without concern.

 

Mettaton slowly pushed his thumb beyond the soul's outer corona, working it into the molten core where the magic was densest, hottest. Just as slowly, he drew it out again, pulling a tendril of living magic along with it-- as well as the most gratifying moan from Papyrus.

 

“Is that more to your liking, darling?” Mettaton purred.

 

The tendril he'd loosened from Papyrus' soul snaked around his wrist. Heat and echoed pleasure soaked into his plating and chased up his wiring, sending tingles up his arm.

 

Papyrus regarded him with half-lidded eye sockets, not quite glaring. “Only if you keep going,” he said, breathless and annoyed. He shifted, pushing against the coils of Mettaton's arms.

 

The warm, open soul under his hand wasn't the only thing making Mettaton's own soul flare brighter. Truthfully, any show of irritation or bossiness by Papyrus really did things for him, but that wasn't the game tonight.

 

He contented himself with pulling Papyrus flush against him, leaving the skeleton no freedom of movement while Mettaton worked his soul at a slow, deliberate pace. Papyrus fought to regain some control, to force him to move faster. Mettaton's greater strength and patience won out, and soon enough Papyrus got the idea and moved in the same rhythm, rocking in Mettaton's lap and against the hand buried deep in his chest.

 

For a moment, Mettaton shut his eye, the better to concentrate on the gasps and half-formed words so close to his ear. The better to feel the firm slide of Papyrus' body against his, the textures of wool and satin and bone, the pressure. The dizzying feeling of Papyrus' aura fulling enmeshed with his, and the unspooling magic of his lovely soul washing over him, pulling him under…

 

When he opened his eye, he was met with the sight of his agent lost to the world. Head tossed back and mouth parted slightly, Papyrus gazed unseeing at the ceiling. His breath hitched as he rode Mettaton's fingers.

 

God, he couldn't send Papyrus away for so long again. He needed this. He needed _more._ His own soul throbbed in its housing, burning his circuitry with unspent magic. Their current position afforded Mettaton no leverage, however, and he wouldn't last long enough if he let Papyrus loose tonight.

 

“Just a moment, darling,” Mettaton said, static creeping back into his voice. He pulled his hand free of Papyrus' chest, much to the skeleton's dismay, and retracted his arms to their default length.

 

A protest turned into a squawk of surprise as Mettaton stood and tossed Papyrus back into the chair. Unable to catch himself, Papyrus landed in an ungainly sprawl, one leg flung over a chair arm and his bound arms caught over the other. Before joining him, Mettaton took a second to save this image to his hard drive-- his loyal agent spread out before him, bound and disheveled and perfect, staring up at him in naked want.

 

Mettaton's soul was more mobile than most, a byproduct of his...unique circumstances and, as far as he was concerned, the only positive of having been incorporeal. His soul slid free of its housing as he settled over Papyrus, drifting up to the level of his chest where it was more convenient for the task at hand.

 

His darling watched its transit with eager interest. It took an effort not to simply dive in, but Mettaton waited, poised just out of reach. With his knee, he shoved the skeleton's legs further apart, both to make room for himself and to help ensure that Papyrus couldn't move effectively. This would be over soon enough without letting him set their pace.

 

“Ready, darling?” Mettaton resumed his petting, hands roving over Papyrus' lean frame. He smiled at the frustrated growl this caused.

 

Papyrus squirmed, torn between pressing into Mettaton's caress and pulling away in irritation. Not that he could really do either with the way he was lying. “Yes! Obviously!” The tendrils of his undone soul reached up for Mettaton's, beckoning.

 

Well. Easier to resist the pull of an electromagnet than that display.

 

Papyrus jerked in his arms as their souls made contact, choking on a strangled cry. Mettaton pressed him down into the cushion with his weight, holding the skeleton still and waiting for his gyroscopes to settle. The first few moments were always more intense than he expected, the heady pulse of magic amplified somehow through a physical body. He planted wet kisses along Papyrus' neck and jawline in apology for yet another delay while 'up' and 'down' reasserted themselves.

 

Unable to embrace him any other way, Papyrus wrapped his slim legs around Mettaton's waist and squeezed. With a shaky sigh, he turned his face to give more maddeningly tender nuzzles, all irritation forgotten now that he had what he wanted.

 

Adjusting his grip to support Papyrus at a more comfortable angle, Mettaton claimed his mouth in a one-sided kiss, swallowing the first of his moans. Mettaton started moving, slower than he had with his hand, more forceful. Each rocking movement pushed their souls farther into one another, wrung another pleasured sob from his beloved, darling Papyrus, whose soul was hot enough to boil his own to vapor.

 

He could think of far worse ways to go, filling and being filled at once with that strong, beautiful magic, the sweet friction of their bodies as they moved together. So good, so good, so _good_ …!

 

Papyrus shouted, legs clamping down tight and back arching as he came. It was typically a struggle to keep up with Papyrus' stamina, not that Mettaton would ever admit as much aloud, but his agent must have been closer to the edge than he assumed. He held Papyrus tight through his climax, drinking in his cries like wine as the final swell of the skeleton's magic slammed into and through him like a cresting wave.

 

“Keep going,” Papyrus urged, breathless, pressing up against him. “Keep going!”

 

Still dizzy from the echoes of Papyrus' orgasm, Mettaton happily obliged, quickening his rhythm. The body under his was languorous, the soul under and engulfing his no longer searing hot but warm and plush. Papyrus moaned in lazy bliss, murmuring endearments in Mettaton's ear. As expected, it didn't take long for him to tip over the edge, vision whiting out and body dissolving in a blown-fuse wash of ecstasy.

 

“-ettaton? ...Mettaton, are you awake?”

 

Visual feed clearing, Mettaton pushed himself up on quivering arms. His internal clock said fifteen seconds had passed. He blinked down at Papyrus, who was looking quite thoroughly debauched, his chest heaving and aftershock tremors running through his long limbs. Another image to save, if his camera hadn't been knocked offline by the sudden power surge. It felt as though half his subroutines had reset. They probably had.

 

“Oh, good,” Papyrus said, smiling. “I was starting to worry that you'd fallen asleep.”

 

His processor finally catching up to the external world, Mettaton sat up fully, helping Papyrus to do the same. “Sorry about that, darling!” Well, that was a little embarrassing. He knew he was heavy. There was no way Papyrus could have escaped from under him if he really had drifted off. He'd have been trapped until either Mettaton woke up or a custodian found them.

 

“That's okay!” Papyrus twisted to let Mettaton release the harness, rolling the stiffness out of his shoulders once he was free. “I take it as a compliment.”

 

“As well you should,” Mettaton said, kissing Papyrus' cheekbone and rubbing his shoulders.

 

With a contented sigh, Papyrus leaned against Mettaton, relaxing into the massage. “I am pretty great, after all.” He stifled a yawn with his hand.

 

“Naturally. Will you be sleeping in your bed or mine, Papyrus dear?”

 

Papyrus hummed sleepily. “Mmm, yours, I think,” he said, getting up to stand on somewhat wobbly legs. With shaking fingers, he buttoned his shirt and made a half-hearted attempt to tuck it back in. “First I need to make sure Sans made it to bed. It's not healthy for him to sleep at his desk.”

 

Mettaton gathered the rumpled suit jacket from the floor with one extended arm and handed it over. Papyrus shrugged it back on, pulling his undone tie from around his neck and stuffing it in his pocket. He was leaving the room in far less pristine condition than he'd arrived. Well, the change was unlikely to be noticed-- half the monsters here didn't even wear clothing.

 

“On that note,” Papyrus said, aiming a stern look at Mettaton while he straightened his sleeves. “I'll know if you stay up all night, so don't.”

 

Spent as he was, the command sent a residual zing of electricity through Mettaton's body. “Of course, darling.” The concern behind the scolding was intoxicating in a different way, and as Papyrus reached out a hand to smooth back a stray lock of his hair Mettaton practically had to sit on his own hands to keep from pulling the skeleton back down into the chair with him.

 

Later. His agent was home now. There was time.

 

Papyrus grinned. “Good! In that case, I'll let you get back to work.” He leaned down to nuzzle Mettaton's cheek a final time. “Goodnight, Mettaton.”

 

“Goodnight, darling.”

 

Mettaton watched his agent until the doors had shut and his footsteps receded down the hallway. Reluctantly, he turned his attention back to the papers on his desk. So much left to do...

 

He wasn't stiff and sore anymore, but rather luxuriously sleepy. His soul rested in its housing, pleasantly tender. Within the hour, Papyrus would be waiting in his bed.

 

Mettaton decided that there was nothing here that couldn't wait until morning.


	2. A lot of positive energy at the sesh (Papyrus/Rodimus)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Rodimus picks up a hitchhiker, he really ~picks up~ a hitchhiker. Despite the title, J/O crystals do not feature, which I'm kind of regretting now because MISSED OPPORTUNITY. Oh well. How many characters can I have this hapless skeleton fuck? Only time will tell. If you're wondering why Rodimus keeps saying "babe" so much, it's because he forgot Papyrus' name approximately ten seconds after hearing it. He don't wanna meet Papyrus' daddy, just wants him in his Caddy, etc. 
> 
> Not for any request, but written in a fit of spite after the most recent round of Whack-A-Troll in the Transformers fandom, with the old, familiar theme of "a bluh bluh bluh i hate it when people write things i don't like, you all are fandom cancer, just being honest~ :)"
> 
> Whatever, dude. I can be cancer in two fandoms at once! Efficiency! So, have an unedited, self-indulgent, cross-over crack pairing with silly, pointless porn. Never written Rodimus before, so he's probably OOC. If I'm going for "piece of shit badfic writer, as measured by some douchey rando" that means I'm only one mermaid tail and a self-insert OC away from a perfect score!
> 
> Content: soul sex, half-assed praise kink, yet more robot fucking

There was nothing worse than being broke down on the side of the highway at night in the middle of nowhere. Well, actually, there was something worse, and that was being broke down at night in the middle of nowhere with a dead cell phone battery.

 

Papyrus sighed. According to the last signpost he'd passed, the nearest town was miles down the road.

 

After half an hour of walking, it started to rain.

 

“The Great Papyrus will not be deterred,” Papyrus said, though not _too_ loud in case something overheard him and it started to hail.

 

Lights and the sound of an engine behind him made Papyrus look back. Ah, another motorist! Surely they would be all too happy to help a fellow traveler in need. He waved, but they didn't stop.

 

Well, no matter! It was dark, and raining to boot. They must not have seen him.

 

A few minutes later, another car passed by with the same result. Papyrus could have sworn the next car actually sped up a little. The one after that kicked up a huge splash of cold water on him, taking care of any bit of him that was still even somewhat dry.

 

Papyrus stopped trying to flag down help, and decided to just focus on walking. Picking up a hitchhiking skeleton monster on a rainy night was probably a braver act than he should expect from most humans. He'd seen enough of their scary movies to know how this sort of thing came across. As much as it hurt his feelings, he'd be understanding.

 

Still, this was shaping up to be a night that would test even his optimism.

 

Another set of headlights illuminated the blacktop. Papyrus braced himself for another dousing, but the car slowed, engine growling as it pulled onto the shoulder to a stop. Taken aback, Papyrus stopped and turned to look.

 

Even in the dark and the rain, this was the most gorgeous car Papyrus had ever seen in his life. Nothing in any magazine he'd ever read compared. Deep orange and yellow patterns licked along candy-red paint, and the angles of the body were sleek and aggressive. It even sounded amazing, the rumble of its engine sending out vibrations that Papyrus could feel through the soles of his boots.

 

“Nasty night for a walk,” a baritone voice said over the sound of the rain and the idling engine. “Need a lift?”

 

Papyrus approached the passenger-side door, leaning down to peer in through the opened window. “Yes, as a matter of fact,” he said, with his friendliest smile. “That would be excellent.” While he was, of course, perfectly capable of walking to town, it would be preferable not to. Being warm and dry sounded nice right about now.

 

The dark-haired human in the driver's seat studied Papyrus over the top of his sunglasses (At night? Wasn't it difficult to see?) He looked a bit surprised, but not bothered. “Oh, you're not a human, are you?”

 

“No…?” Papyrus thought that much was blatantly obvious, but it wouldn't do to be rude to someone who was nice enough to stop and help a stranger. “Is that a problem?” It seemed to be a problem for a lot of humans, for reasons unknown.

 

The driver shook his head, shaggy hair fluffing out over his headband. “No, just wasn't expecting it out here in the sticks. Always nice to meet a new lifeform, though. Hop in!”

 

Papyrus skipped back out of the way as the door popped open for him. He was sure the human hadn't reached over to use the handle… Oh, well! Papyrus climbed in, flinching when the door shut after him on its own. The wind, maybe?

 

The driver chuckled softly, and the sound seemed to come from everywhere. As the car pulled back onto the road and accelerated, Papyrus couldn't help noticing that his new friend wasn't gripping the wheel, or even watching the road.

 

“Um...” Papyrus said, buckling his seatbelt. “Not to criticize, but shouldn't you be paying attention to traffic?” Not that there was currently much traffic to speak of, but the human should at least make an effort to steer instead of letting the car...do it...itself…?

 

Papyrus was getting very confused, very quickly.

 

“I've got it handled, don't worry,” the driver said, running a hand through his hair. “Hey, one non-human to another, do you mind if I switch this thing off?” He gestured to himself. For just a split second, he flickered.

 

“What?”

 

The driver shrugged. “Well, it's meant to keep us on the down-low from humans, but it feels a bit stupid with...whatever it is that you are.”

 

Papyrus blinked, trying to decide if that had been a trick of tired eye sockets or if the human had just fritzed out like a TV tuned to a bad station. “I'm a skeleton,” he said automatically, though again it was obvious what he was.

 

“Sure,” the driver said, extending a hand for Papyrus to shake. The moment Papyrus reached out to take his hand, he vanished.

 

Papyrus gasped. The car kept driving perfectly well on its own, driver's seat empty.

 

“I'm Rodimus,” the driver's voice said, from all around him. “Pleased to meet me, I'm sure.”

 

“My name is Papyrus,” Papyrus said, once he realized that he hadn't answered and was being rude. “I beg your pardon, but...are you the car?”

 

Good-natured laughter rang out around him, and Papyrus could swear the engine growled in time with the sound. “Hey, not bad! You'd be surprised how long some people take to figure that out. One Rodimus Star for you, babe.”

 

“Well, I am very good at puzzles,” Papyrus said, a bashful smile tugging at his mouth. A genuine compliment? Wowie...

 

The car's heater kicked on. “Oh, damn, my bad,” Rodimus said. “You're soaked through-- you must be freezing.”

 

“I don't have any skin, so the cold doesn't bother me so much.” Nonetheless, Papyrus held his hands out to the warmth gratefully. “Thank you for stopping,” he said, realizing that he hadn't thanked Rodimus for his help yet. “That would have been a very long walk. Which I could have managed, naturally, but this is better.”

 

“No problem! It's a boring drive with no company, so we can call it even.”

 

A minute passed in silence, Papyrus letting the warm air seep in. He could feel his clothes drying and his joints getting less stiff already. Much better. “I've never met a talking car before,” he said, wanting to learn more about his exotic new friend. “Are you common?”

 

The engine purred. “There's no one else like me, babe.”

 

Papyrus blushed. This car had a sexy voice.

 

“But yes,” Rodimus went on, cabin lights pulsing faintly. “I'm not from around here. Or anywhere near here, really.”

 

“Oh, I see.”

 

“And you? I thought humans were the only sapients on this planet.”

 

Papyrus wasn't entirely sure what a sapient was, though it didn't appear to be anything insulting. It sounded like some of Sans' sci-fi stuff. “We monsters try to keep a low profile,” he offered, thinking that was a decent answer that didn't let on that he had no idea what Rodimus was talking about.

 

“Yeah, humans get weird when they're nervous, don't they? Strange that I've never heard mention of you folks before, though.”

 

“It's...complicated,” Papyrus said, not really wanting to go into the topic of monster history. All that was depressing and boring compared to meeting a talking car.

 

Now that he was mostly dry, the heater dialed back so that it was no longer at full blast. “Hey, don't worry about it,” Rodimus said, something in his voice hinting that he maybe could understand the situation better than Papyrus assumed. “First date conversation is supposed to stay light, right?”

 

Heat flushed Papyrus' face. “Oh, um...I think so…?” he squeaked. Date? He didn't remember agreeing to that. Had it already started? That wasn't fair at all, starting a date and not telling him! He was at a terrible disadvantage now! Rodimus was already several compliments ahead.

 

Could he go on a date with a car? How was that meant to work? Rodimus wouldn't fit in a movie theater or a restaurant, or anything like that!

 

“Hey, relax, babe,” Rodimus said, catching on to his sudden case of nerves. “I'm kidding.”

 

“Oh.” Well, now Papyrus just felt silly.

 

“You fluster easy.” The seatbelt snugged up a bit, sliding across Papyrus' chest in a not-unpleasant way. “It's cute.”

 

Another compliment? Papyrus was getting mixed signals, here. “Um,” he said, annoyed at how not-smooth he was being. “I'm sorry, but just so we're clear-- we're _not_ on a date?”

 

Rodimus laughed, cabin lights strobing softly. “Oh, Vector Sigma, babe! You're fragging adorable.”

 

Great, he'd made a fool of himself in front of the first talking car he'd ever met. How galling.

 

“Hey, don't pout,” Rodimus said, radio dials twisting to settle on soft, unobtrusive music. “I'm not laughing at you. I've been having a real slag day. Well, longer than a day, to be honest. You're cheering me up, that's all.”

 

“That's good,” Papyrus said, ego still stinging.

 

Was it him, or was it warm in here?

 

“You know, we _could_ , if you wanted.” Rodimus sounded speculative. “I'll try anything once.”

 

Papyrus fidgeted, suddenly aware that Rodimus could probably feel his every movement. “Are you still kidding?” Fool him once, after all…

 

“No, babe. Dead serious this time. Not to sound like some xeno chaser, or anything,” Rodimus said, “but you are intriguing, I gotta admit.”

 

Well, this wasn't at all how he'd expected his night to go. Papyrus sat thinking for a moment. He needed to call a tow truck, and he needed to find a place to stay the night, since he probably couldn't make it home tonight now. And he definitely needed to let Sans know that he'd been delayed. And he'd only just met Rodimus, and as nice as he seemed Papyrus wasn't sure if it was proper to…

 

Also, Rodimus was a _car._ A very fancy, very charming car, but a car nonetheless. As much as Papyrus loved cars, he was pretty sure it was strictly platonic.

 

“No pressure,” Rodimus said, gently. “I just thought, you know, it looks like we've both had a rotten day.”

 

That much was true.

 

Well, Papyrus supposed it couldn't hurt anything to try. They still had a long way to go before they reached the next town. “Okay,” he said, desperately searching for the scattered shreds of his game. “What would you like to do?”

 

“You sure you want to open with that?” Rodimus didn't have eyebrows to waggle, but the idea came across surprisingly well.

 

Papyrus blushed. Ugh, he was so out of practice. Or rather, he'd never really been _in_ practice. Not that Rodimus needed to know that.

 

The cabin lights dimmed. “Would you rather I used my avatar again?”

 

“No,” Papyrus said, annoyed at how badly he was fumbling this. “No, you should be yourself.” It might be easier to have a face to look at, but he didn't want Rodimus to have to put on a false front for his sake. That seemed to go against the very concept of a date.

 

Rodimus hummed thoughtfully, engine thrumming. “I like your style, babe.”

 

Wow, Rodimus was good at dating. A car was more debonair than Papyrus was, unbelievable. Well, he'd just have to chalk it up as valuable practice.

 

“Thank you. I like you, too.” That was pretty weak, as far as compliments went. “And your paint is very shiny,” Papyrus added, feeling that more specific feedback might be called for.

 

“It is, isn't it? Thanks for noticing.”

 

The engine revved briefly, sending a pleasant little shiver up Papyrus' spine.

 

Rodimus shivered as well, the body of the car rattling slightly, and Papyrus realized that he'd grabbed hold of the gearshift in his surprise.

 

“Oh! Sorry.” Papyrus let go, embarrassed and not sure why.

 

Rodimus made a mechanical noise not unlike clearing a throat. “It's cool,” he said, sounding slightly less suave. “My interior doesn't get touched a lot. But I'm down for skipping to the good part if that's what you're aiming for.”

 

Oh…? Oh. _Oh._ How would that even work, exactly? Also, Papyrus was fairly sure that first dates weren't when that sort of shenanigans were supposed to occur. He could understand Rodimus' interest-- he was a strikingly handsome skeleton, without a doubt. But...

 

Rodimus took his silence for refusal. “Hey, don't worry about it,” The cabin lights brightened again. “I'm told I move too fast.”

 

“I'm not ruling it out,” Papyrus said, hesitant but admittedly curious. He didn't have much experience, although any skills he picked up with Rodimus would be...niche. “How exactly would this, um, be accomplished?”

 

The lights came down again immediately. “No idea. That's half the fun, isn't it?” The seatbelt slid against Papyrus' shoulder, caressing.

 

For some reason, the fact that Rodimus didn't know what he was doing either made Papyrus more comfortable with the whole idea. Besides, when had he ever shied away from a new challenge? Testing, Papyrus drew his fingers over the center console.

 

“That's the spirit,” Rodimus said. “We can just take it easy, let it go where it goes.”

 

Papyrus could work with that. Feeling a little less nervous, he relaxed into the drowsy warmth, fingers idly tracing the shift pattern. For the sake of taking his mind off of...whatever this was that they were doing, he asked, “So, are you going anywhere special?”

 

“Hmm?” Rodimus seemed a bit distracted. Was this safe to do while he was driving? Papyrus was sure a car would naturally be an excellent driver, but still… “Not really,” Rodimus said, air gusting from the vents in a sigh. The cooler air tingled against Papyrus' bones. “Just driving. How about you, babe? I take it that coupe on the shoulder back there is yours?”

 

“Yes, I'm afraid it is. I'm actually on my way home from a trip. Or I was, anyway...” As fond as Papyrus was of his car (which was perfect in every conceivable way because it was his) it did suffer a lot of mechanical misfortune.

 

“Older machines can be temperamental, in my experience,” Rodimus said, with a suggestive snicker. “She's lovely, though. You have good taste. Of course,” he went on, engine purring, “I could tell that from the second you laid eyes on me.”

 

The vibration from the engine tickled faintly, making Papyrus squirm in his seat.

 

“You're distracting the driver,” Rodimus teased, puffing cool air through the vents.

 

The contrast in temperature left Papyrus feeling overly sensitive. He shivered, hand gripping the door handle. His soul pulsed a little brighter in his chest.

 

Rodimus chuckled, but his voice held a hint of strain. “Okay, seriously, though,” he said, slowing down slightly. “Do you mind if we find somewhere to pull off for a bit?”

 

“That might be the responsible thing to do.” Safety first, after all. Distracted driving was dangerous.

 

“Awesome.” Rodimus went quiet for a moment. “Looks like there's a barn just up ahead. Sound good? I swear I'd take you somewhere nicer if I could.”

 

Wow, this was actually happening. Briefly, Papyrus hesitated. He was acting very impulsively, and the whole scenario was less than proper. On the other hand… He'd be lying if he said he wasn't curious, and Rodimus was charming and nice. If he let the opportunity pass now, it might not show up again.

 

Besides, it wasn't like he was going to talk about this chance encounter to all and sundry. It would just be between the two of them, private.

 

That was exciting. A little anticipatory thrill ran up his spine at the thought.

 

“That's fine,” Papyrus said, finally, his voice lacking the level of devil-may-care confidence that he'd have preferred.

 

Rodimus wasted no time, and shortly they turned off the highway onto a gravel drive.

 

“Ugh, wet gravel,” Rodimus said, and if a car could go on tiptoe, he would have. “My undercarriage is going to be a mess.”

 

The barn was little more than an over-sized shed-- a pre-fabricated, sheet metal affair that didn't even have a door. Still, it was dry and kept them out of sight from the road. Papyrus was fairly sure that whoever owned it wouldn't want them staying here, but public indecency rated a little higher on his priority list than trespassing.

 

“That's more like it.” Rodimus settled on his suspension, seemingly pleased to be in out of the rain. “Mind if I change into something more comfortable?”

 

Papyrus had no time to puzzle out what that meant before the car unfolded around him and he was launched up into the air with a shocked yelp. A second later, he was caught by a massive pair of hands. As the world stopped spinning, Papyrus looked up into the face of a very large, very sexy robot. Large cyan eyes glowed in the darkness of the barn. They were too tall to stand up inside, sitting on their heels instead. Lines of red light glowed softly along their body. The car was nowhere to be seen.

 

...Wait, what?

 

“No worries, I got you,” the robot said, and Papyrus immediately recognized the voice as Rodimus'. “Had to show off a little. You good?”

 

Still a bit dizzy and trying to catch up with current events, Papyrus nodded. Now that he looked, he could see tires peeking out from the robot's forearms, and the winglets sprouting from Rodimus' shoulders were the two halves of the car's spoiler. Rodimus smirked, and Papyrus realized he was staring pretty blatantly.

 

“Like what you see?”

 

“You're very pretty,” Papyrus said, too awestruck to mince words. Any lingering apprehension started to fade. Messing around with a sexy robot was an item on his bucket list that he'd had serious doubts of ever crossing off. Rodimus was, perhaps, a little larger than Papyrus had envisioned. Go big or go home, apparently…?

 

The smirk bloomed into a wide smile. “I know, right? It's a blessing and a curse.” Rodimus shifted his hands to let Papyrus sit on his palm. “You're not bad yourself.”

 

Papyrus blushed. “Well, I do work out,” he said, and realized he was kicking his legs back and forth-- not the manliest move in the playbook. He stilled. “Er...Sorry.” He was still being awkward, but he didn't know how to stop. “It's just...I don't really do things like this. I hardly know you.”

 

“It's fine,” Rodimus said, moving to recline against a stack of hay bales. “Like I said, no pressure. What do you wanna know?”

 

Keeping his balance as Rodimus made himself comfortable, Papyrus racked his brain for first date questions. “Do you have a job?”

 

Rodimus' eyes lit up. “Gotta be on vacation from something, right? I'm a starship captain.”

 

“Really?” Papyrus had been expecting something along the lines of courier or taxi-- something a car could do. “That's so cool!”

 

Grinning like mad, Rodimus cupped his hands in close to his chest, bringing Papyrus closer. “Yeah, we're docked for maintenance at the moment, so I thought I'd take some 'me' time. Not that I don't love my crew, but looking out for two hundred bots all the time gets wearing after a while. The rigors of command-- you know how it is.”

 

Wow, what a cool job. A leadership role, even! “That sounds very important.”

 

Rodimus snuggled against the round bales, happily drinking up the attention. “Yeah, you could say I'm touched by destiny. Leading an intrepid crew on an epic quest among the stars, sort of thing. No big deal.” He pursed his lips. “Well, I guess it kind of is, actually.”

 

“You're really doing all that?” More sci-fi stuff, but it certainly sounded impressive. Quests were undeniably heroic. “That's amazing!”

 

With a pleased sound, Rodimus lifted Papyrus to nuzzle him gently. “I wish I could carry you around on my shoulder all the time like a parrot, or something. You're awesome.”

 

The cuddle paired with praise from someone so clearly special and cool stoked Papyrus' soul bright enough to glow through his shirt.

 

Rodimus straightened up, head cocked to the side in puzzlement. “There it is again,” he said, more to himself than Papyrus. “Is it rude if I ask what's up with that?” With his free hand, he tapped one large finger against Papyrus' breastbone.

 

“Oh, it's, um...” Goodness, how embarrassing! “It's me, in a certain sense…? But in this context, it's somewhat...” Papyrus blushed furiously.

 

“Huh.” Rodimus petted Papyrus' chest. As light as he kept his touch, Papyrus still had to work to keep from being pushed over. It felt good, though. “Like a spark. That's cool. Maybe this'll be easier than I thought.”

 

Leaning back again, Rodimus set Papyrus on his chest. One large hand kept him from sliding down the smooth metal, and from the paint he recognized it as the car's hood, now serving as a sort of breastplate. He could feel the rumble of the engine through his legs, and warmth that would have been on the edge of scorching for a human.

 

“And I thought humans were delicate,” Rodimus said, pushing aside Papyrus' jacket and shirt with curious fingers. “This open framework is all you have shielding you?”

 

It didn't occur to Papyrus that anything about his body was lacking, but the 'delicate' comment scraped his ego the wrong way. “I'm tougher than I look,” he said, and to his mind he already looked pretty tough. 

 

“Obviously,” Rodimus said, smiling, and all was forgiven. “Even I'm not tough enough to leave my spark in the open.” He let go of the fabric for the time being and returned to his exploring touches over Papyrus' clothes.

 

The acknowledgment that he was, yes, a bit of a badass in his own right was as pleasant as the petting. Rodimus was careful with him, giving Papyrus space to decide how much pressure he wanted. Papyrus leaned into Rodimus' hands-- tricky, since pressing closer to one often meant leaning away from the other.

 

Arching against the metallic knuckles dragging along his spine, Papyrus gripped Rodimus' other hand in his, guiding it somewhat forcefully to his hips. Amused but obliging, Rodimus massaged the joints there with a firmer touch. Perhaps he was used to humans, who bruised easily. The deeper pressure was much more satisfying, and Papyrus sighed in appreciation. Slightly more relaxing than arousing, but that was fine.

 

Evidently it wasn't fine with Rodimus. “Don't wanna put you to sleep, babe,” he said, gathering Papyrus nearer to run a large, wet tongue along his neck. “Not yet, anyway.” His rich voice reverberated through Papyrus' bones, heavy with suggestion.

 

Reaching up to lay a hand on the corner of Rodimus' mouth, Papyrus waited for his head to stop spinning. Being manhandled like a doll in his new friend's hands was doing things for him that he hadn't expected. In a detached, logical way, he knew that Rodimus, being so much bigger and stronger, could crush him quite easily. At the same time, he was certain that he was completely safe.

 

“O-okay,” he said, granting permission for whatever Rodimus planned on doing with the most complex words he could manage at the moment.

 

Fingers tangled in slender limbs, Rodimus arranged him to his liking. Nuzzling along Papyrus' torso, he gripped the hem of Papyrus' shirt delicately in his teeth and tugged it up out of the way. Papyrus blushed harder as his soul was fully exposed, casting soft light on the satiny metal of Rodimus' face.

 

“Don't look so embarrassed,” Rodimus purred, and Papyrus could see the mechanisms behind the glass of his eyes adjusting to the light. “It's as cute as you are.” The hand cradling his hips shifted, thumb stroking gently against his pelvis.

 

That wasn't relaxing. The rhythmic pressure and soft scrape of denim was maddening. Gasping, Papyrus wriggled in Rodimus' grip, trying futilely to either escape or push closer, he couldn't decide. His fingertips clawed against Rodimus' face with a high-pitched rill.

 

“Pro tip,” Rodimus said, gusting hot air over Papyrus' bare ribcage, “don't feel like you need to keep quiet on my account.” He dragged his tongue up the length of Papyrus' sternum, lapping against the ribs in time with his stroking.

 

The question of being quiet was off the table almost immediately. Some of the noises Papyrus was making weren't terribly sexy, by his own estimation, but he couldn't keep them down if he tried. Mindlessly, he tried to pull Rodimus closer. Unable to get any leverage, his fingertips scratched furrows into Rodimus' cheeks and jawline.

 

Without the proximity of another soul, Papyrus' soul stayed stubbornly inside his ribcage, just out of reach of the tongue laving his bones in broad swaths. Moans segued into frustrated whines. Too far gone to articulate what he needed, Papyrus lay in Rodimus' hands, hovering on the edge but stuck there. Luckily, Rodimus figured the problem out on his own. The hand at Papyrus' back coaxed his spine into a deeper arch, angling the barrel of his ribcage. Left staring up at the ceiling (and was it him, or was it brighter in here?), Papyrus could still feel the wide smirk against his chest. Rodimus mouthed the bottom of his ribcage, lips rubbing teasingly over the lowest ribs and the dagger of his sternum. Massive teeth shut gently on the bones, and the vibration they carried from Rodimus' pleased hum and the rumble of his engine left Papyrus writhing.

 

Rodimus' tongue was long enough to flicker over his spine, drawing out wordless pleas. When warm, pliant metal finally curled around his soul, Papyrus choked on a scream, shaking as he came.

 

...Well. That was unexpected. Had that even taken five minutes?

 

Still quivering, Papyrus squirmed against Rodimus' palms until he'd somewhat managed to sit up. Far from looking disappointed or amused, the very cool robot captain was staring at him intensely, gnawing on his lower lip. Shifting light from somewhere below cast reflections on his face.

 

“Tingly,” he said, finally, a trace of static under the harmonics of his voice. “What's the verdict, babe? Good?”

 

“Uh-huh,” Papyrus said, muzzy and feeling sort of floaty.

 

“You done?” A hint of a smirk found its way back onto Rodimus' face, but it was an earnest question. Papyrus caught the tension in his new friend-with-benefits' frame.

 

Shaking his head, Papyrus wound his arms around one of Rodimus' hands to steady himself. “Of course not!” After so short a time, he certainly hoped not, anyway… “T-that was merely a warm-up.”

 

Chuckling, Rodimus gave Papyrus one last nuzzle, pressing a wet kiss to his chest. “Good to hear, babe,” he said, “because I have a favor to ask, if you don't mind.”

 

“Just point me in the right direction,” Papyrus said, soothing the scratches he'd left on Rodimus' face, “and I shall pleasure you to the very best of my ability.” Yes, that sounded more like it. Sensual, yet gentlemanly. His game had arrived fifteen minutes late with fancy coffee, but better late than never!

 

Rodimus laughed, and kissed him again. “Oh, I don't doubt it, babe! You're so Primus-damned cute...”

 

Papyrus wasn't quite sure how he felt about the 'cute' moniker, but he couldn't argue with the way Rodimus said it, like it was the highest virtue he could possess.

 

The source of the mysterious light became apparent once Rodimus lowered Papyrus back down to his chest. The hood-turned-breastplate was split down the middle, slid apart in segments to expose a chamber that held a brilliant sphere of light.

 

Papyrus knew a soul when he saw one. His own stirred with sleepy interest at the waves of energy pouring from the sphere. “Beautiful,” he breathed, unable to look away.

 

“Hmm, thanks, babe.” Rodimus smiled down at him, a few layers of swagger melted away to reveal honest happiness at the compliment. Papyrus decided that was a lot sexier than the machismo from earlier.

 

Not that he'd had any problem with that, either. Rodimus was just plain attractive, and he didn't mind saying so.

 

...Come to think of it, that gave Papyrus a rather ingenious idea.

 

He traced the outer surface of the sphere, watching light arc up to meet his fingertips. Something like magic buzzed pleasantly through his bones at the contact, and Rodimus shivered under him. “I wish I could see you better,” Papyrus said, quite honestly. As small as he was by comparison, and up this close, there was a lot of the robot that was outside his field of view. Rodimus' legs had looked particularly shapely, for the brief glimpse at a strange angle that he had of them. “You're very good-looking.”

 

“Oh, yeah?” Rodimus said, in a way that clearly meant 'continue, please.' He stroked Papyrus' back with shaky fingers.

 

Five minutes was the time to beat. Papyrus liked his chances. “Yes,” he said, scooting closer so that the beach-ball sized soul was between his knees. “I'm glad I can see your face clearly, at least. I'd say you have exquisite bone structure, but that's probably not correct, is it?” He braced himself against the edge of the chamber with one hand, gripping a bundle of thick cables.

 

Rodimus squirmed against the bales. “I get what you mean, and I agree,” he said, voice noticeably strained. He grinned, chewing his lip. “What else?”

 

“I don't think I've seen this exact shade of red before,” Papyrus went on, flushed with rekindled lust and a strange sort of power-trip. That Rodimus seemed to value his opinion so much was a heady feeling. “It's very classy, I think. Though I'm sure you'd look good in any color.”

 

Hoping that this soul followed the same rules as his and that he wasn't about to injure his friend, Papyrus pressed deeper into the light. There was resistance, but his hand slipped in easily enough. Rodimus groaned, and Papyrus could hear his heels scraping against the concrete floor. Pins and needles danced over his hand and arm, the strange magic running up to his shoulder where it seemed to ground itself in his spine like a bolt of lightning.

 

Well, this was a very large soul. It stood to reason that it would be strong. His own soul growing bright again, Papyrus flexed his hand, watching the way the patterns of light changed in response to the movement.

 

“I'm sure you must be very popular,” Papyrus said, thinking of the sorts of things he might like to hear. “As accomplished and handsome as you are. Your crew must be very happy to work for you.”

 

Rodimus pushed him closer, until Papyrus was all but curled around the oversized soul. “Mmm, totally,” he panted, eyes flickering and unfocused. “You're so perceptive, babe.”

 

Papyrus shivered at the praise, but he refused to lose sight of his goal. Five minutes. He was going to win. Not that he needed prodding to redouble his efforts-- now that he'd had a minute to rest, he was more than ready for another round. Pulling his hand free with a pop of warm plasma, he shifted so that he was all but kneeling in the chamber and wrapped his arms around the soul to embrace it.

 

His own soul, drifting free of its confines, was dwarfed by its partner to the point that Papyrus couldn't even see it, which was a slightly weird feeling. Despite the size difference, however, it seemed to be doing the job just fine if Rodimus' reaction was anything to go by.

 

“Oh, Primus,” Rodimus groaned, followed by some vaguely electronic gibberish that Papyrus had no hope of understanding. He didn't speak computer. He took it as a good sign, though, and rocked his chest against the soul, enjoying the warm buzz that was quickly blotting out every other sensation. He could feel Rodimus straining to hold still, hands cupped around him protectively.

 

“I'm so happy I got to meet you,” Papyrus said, losing his composure a bit to a blissed-out haze. He clawed at the surface of the soul, knuckles brushing the inner walls of the chamber and making Rodimus twitch. “You're so lovely and charming and cool and...” he was having trouble concentrating on his strategic compliments, the urge to just rut against his friend's unusual soul until the wave crested, so to speak, growing harder to resist. He couldn't let Rodimus have the better showing twice in a row, though! He had to keep his wits about him. “And...and so forth.”

 

Not the wittiest _mot juste_ , there, but his quickly collapsing control appeared to serve the same end. Eyes gone dim, Rodimus watched him as though transfixed, lips parted.

 

Running out of time in more ways than one, Papyrus thought back to how nice Rodimus' kisses had felt. He couldn't recreate the act exactly, but he shut his eye sockets against the near-blinding light and nuzzled tenderly against the soul.

 

There was a high-frequency pop, and all at once white fire engulfed him, burning his bones to ash.

 

In a figurative sense, anyway. In a more literal sense, Rodimus' sudden and powerful orgasm took Papyrus' soul along with it in a non-localized climax that filled every square inch of him with pleasure edging on pain before knocking him out cold. He woke to the sound of metal pinging as it cooled and the feeling of a large hand languidly stroking his back.

 

Rodimus' chest was all closed up and proper again, but the robot lay in a boneless (in a manner of speaking) sprawl against the hay bales. A wide grin was settled on his mouth, and his engine purred contentedly.

 

With an effort, Papyrus propped his chin on one hand, blinking up at Rodimus. “Verdict?” he asked, voice croaky.

 

“Mmmmm,” Rodimus hummed. Well, it was a fairly eloquent answer, in its own way. Steam rose from his joints. "That's worth another Rodimus Star, for sure. Hell, maybe two."

 

Papyrus grinned. Not that it was any surprise, but it looked like he'd done an excellent job! Naturally.

 

Stretching luxuriously, Rodimus settled his hands back over Papyrus like a heavy blanket. “That worked out better than expected,” he said, sounding obscenely pleased.

 

Papyrus nodded agreement. His clothes were rumpled beyond all reason and he was coated with a sparkly dusting of...something, but he was far too relaxed to care. This had been a good decision.

 

“Four minutes,” he said, drifting in a fizzy post-coital fog.

 

Rodimus looked down at him, eyes flashing in a puzzled blink. “What was that, babe?”

 

Papyrus held up four fingers. “I win,” he said, thoroughly satisfied with every aspect of their impromptu tryst. “By a whole minute.”

 

“Oh, babe,” Rodimus laughed, catching on. “You do not want to get into competition with me when it comes to fragging. Or maybe you do,” he added, taking in Papyrus' challenging grin.

 

That was plenty of friendly sportsmanship for one night, though. Rodimus ran his thumb along the back of Papyrus' neck. “What do you say to a quick nap before I drive you home?”

 

His car was still on the side of the road, and he still hadn't called his brother, and it might not be a great idea to linger in this barn any longer than necessary. But it could wait an hour or so. Papyrus nodded. Snuggling against the warm metal, he listened to the lulling sound of the rain on the barn roof and the engine below him and drifted off.


	3. Club Soda (sans/f. reader)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For peaceey, who has the fortune (I don't know if it's good or bad) of prompting my first and probably last /reader fic! Boy, I am not good at writing like this. Much respect to the folks that write /reader fic on the regular, y'all have a skill I lack and you bet I'm salty about it. I feel like I cheesed this a little bit, but hopefully it's okay! Plus there is a bonus epilogue??? (That's longer than the actual scene??? Sorry about that!)
> 
> Content: canon character/reader, light bondage, light blood play, Sans is kind of dropping the Dom ball HE IS TRYING HIS BEST, OKAY? HUMANS ARE WEIRD. Reader is a bit of a chaser but she means well.

The bare mattress looks kind of questionable, but with a couple towels down it's okay. Plus, it's not like Sans would get it sweaty or anything. He doesn't have any cord or rope, either. Well, whatever. You don't need anything fancy-- a t-shirt tied around your wrists is good enough.

 

He seems a little weirded out by the idea that red stuff oozes from your skin when it's damaged, but you make sure to frame it in a positive way. Everyone has things that get them off that are a little out there, and this is yours. Sans happens to have teeth that look well-suited to your needs, and he's obliging enough to use them, slicing delicately along the curve of your breast and dragging lines of bright pain up your thighs.

 

At least you don't have to explain _everything._ He's clearly seen a cunt before, and his fingers are just rough enough to make it interesting. More interesting is the pinch of sharp teeth at your throat, and whatever vulgarity he's trying to say around the skin in his mouth. It's always nice to see someone find their confidence. If you can get fucked and build his self esteem at the same time, that's pretty cool. It's like a good deed, or something.

 

All in all, you're pretty happy with how this evening's turned out. You wanted to fuck a monster, and by god you made it happen. Carpe diem. A skeleton might not have been your first choice, but it's not like Sans is gross to look at, or anything. And if a lot of him is kind of sharp and jabby in an awkward, uncomfortable way, at least the teeth make up for it. That, and the general open-mindedness. You have a hard time finding people willing to do this kind of stuff with you.

 

It's been a while, actually, and you're glad Sans was up to try it. You can feel the stress of the week just bleeding away, so to speak. Once he's figured out what he's doing, it's easy to just relax into the bites and rough touches, the chafe of bones against your skin and the scent of fabric softener from the towels.

 

Yeah, you're floating in a nice haze of pain and pleasure and well on your way there when an extra hard bite sends hot slickness running down your neck. And that hits the spot, the bolt of intense pain tipping you over sooner than you expected with a harsh cry. You're not going to complain, though. Nothing saying this only has to go one round, right? The night is young.

 

Sans sits back, looking more concerned than smug. It's kind of spoiling your afterglow, to be honest.

 

“Um…” he says, staring down at your throat. “Should you be leaking that much?”

 

~OOOH, DAT EPILOGUE!!!~

 

Sans can't drive, so it's up to his brother to drive you to the E.R. The car also has no backseat, so you're on the passenger side with Sans in your lap. He's mostly stopped babbling apologies and freaking out about the blood. Mostly.

 

“Oh, my god, bro,” he says, swiping at his teeth. “I think some of it got in my mouth. Fucking sick. No offense,” he adds, darting a glance at you.

 

You shrug. It's a little insulting, but you've heard worse.

 

“And whose fault is that?” His brother is focused on his driving, weaving through traffic on the quickest route to the hospital. He's actually a really skilled driver, though you're sure he's braking and turning a little harder than necessary for the sake of tossing Sans around a bit. He looks pretty pissed. You think, anyway. Still kinda hard to tell without skin.

 

You'd hang onto Sans tighter to keep him from bouncing off the window and dash every time the car changes direction, but you're preoccupied with keeping pressure on the gash in your throat.

 

Sans' brother spares just enough give-a-shit to ask if you're okay. You nod, which makes an extra little gloop of blood escape the dishtowel to drip down your arm. You can see Sans' face blanch at the sight, but at least he's not fucking screaming about it anymore.

 

Sans' brother is not shy about letting both of you know, in no uncertain terms, what he thinks about your “ill-advised bedroom shenanigans” and most especially the blood that's slowly but surely trickling down your arm to drip off your elbow onto his car's upholstery, which, you are informed, he's just detailed.

 

He continues with variations on this theme for the rest of the drive, at great length and high volume. You find yourself saying “Club soda, dude. Just rub a little club soda on it,” at intervals. You're not thinking about much else but keeping the dishtowel clamped to your throat. Alcohol really is a blood thinner, huh? Like, no joke. You weren't worried about it at all when Sans' teeth slipped, and you were kind of irritated that he insisted on stopping, but man. It's just...really coming out of there, isn't it?

 

When they walk you into the emergency room and up to the desk, you give your name as Club Soda.

 


	4. People make bad choices when they're drunk and I'm a bad choice. (Sans/Papyrus knock-off Reborntale)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy belated birthday to PurrfecktlySinful! You're a sweetie and a real pal. On this, the (approximate) day of your birth, I have nothing to offer you but some filth. Many happy returns!  
> Warnings: fontcest, yo (they're unrelated in this off-brand AU), alcohol and regrets.

Neither of them had a dwelling on the mortal plane (though Sans had been putting serious thought lately into acquiring a little place where he could store snacks and sleep undisturbed). Over time, they fell into the habit of occasionally renting a motel room. Mortals got annoying, and while they didn't really need shelter from the elements, sometimes the infinite majesty of creation wasn't what they were in the mood for. Sometimes, it was nice to just veg out in a dark, quiet room and watch television.

 

Papyrus had needed some persuasion about the merits of such an activity, but sports and cooking shows won him over in the end.

 

The remnants of the pizza they'd shared lay slowly congealing in its box on the room's other bed. A half-full bottle of whiskey and a mostly-empty bottle of cola sat on the nightstand. Now and then, Papyrus picked it up to refill one of their complimentary flimsy plastic cups.

 

Old habits were hard to break, and even now Sans had to make a concerted effort to drink to intoxication rather than stop at a responsible, temperate amount. He was getting there, though. The whiskey had him pleasantly fuzzy-headed, like waking up from a long nap.

 

A college football game was playing on the TV, but it was a total shut-out and by half-time even Papyrus had stopped paying more than cursory attention to it. They'd both been busy recently, and it was nice to catch up and simply enjoy the company of another immortal. Their conversation ranged far and wide-- farther and wider the closer the bottle got to empty.

 

At some point, it occurred to Sans that there were a few rather basic facts about the angel that he still didn't know, largely because he'd never bothered to ask. So, he asked. And, naturally, Papyrus answered without hesitation.

 

“Ha! _Really?_ ”

 

It took a few minutes for Sans to get a hold of himself. There was a real danger that he'd pass out laughing. Papyrus glared at him in stony silence until the fit passed.

 

“Oh, my...something,” Sans said, wiping away tears and grinning so wide the top of his head might have fallen off. “You're an angel of _Chastity?_ I thought you were Courage, or something. That explains so much.”

 

Papyrus crossed his arms, aiming a haughty look at Sans. No doubt he'd been the butt of this particular sort of amusement before. “There is nothing wrong with my virtue.”

 

Sans nearly went into another laughing fit at that. “Oh, I bet not!” It was an effort not to say anything more. He hoped the angel appreciated his show of restraint.

 

Judging from his sour expression, Papyrus didn't like even the hint of the joke. “Chastity is about a lot more than sex, thank you very much.” He ticked off subsidiary virtues on his fingers. “I cover honesty, and health, and cleanliness, and self-improvement, and-”

 

“Aww,” Sans said, leaning back against the headboard. “So I don't get to make virgin jokes at you?”

 

Papyrus sputtered and looked away. A dusting of holy light colored his cheekbones, and it wasn't from his halo.

 

Sans sat up straight. “No way,” he said, disbelieving. “Really? Not even once?”

 

The angel made a point of ignoring Sans to focus on the game again. His preferred team was losing badly.

 

“Aren't you curious?” Sans asked, undeterred. “Or are angels of Chastity just not interested in that kind of thing?”

 

Papyrus kept his gaze trained on the TV. “What was your virtue?”

 

That brought Sans up short. “Huh?” Why did it matter? And yet, he found himself volunteering the information. “Uh, Temperance, if you can believe that,” he said. Even most of his fellow demons didn't know that about him. It was no one's business but his, and in any case that wasn't who he was anymore.

 

Feathers fluffing in mild surprise, Papyrus cast an appraising glance at him. “And were you made with perfect self-control and a perfect sense of what is just and unjust?”

 

“Well, no. I mean, obviously not,” Sans said, chuckling. His tail thumped against the mattress as a connection was made. “Wait, so then…?”

 

Papyrus shrugged. “Anyone can abstain from something they don't want to do in the first place. How inspirational is that?”

 

Sometimes Sans forgot just how fucked up Heaven was.

 

“It's fine, though,” Papyrus said, taking a sip of his drink. “I'm sure it's not all that special compared to meditating on the infinite wisdom and compassion of the Almighty.”

 

Deflecting with a half-hearted laugh, Sans took a too-large swig from his own cup. “Gross. Keep your weird kinks to yourself.”

 

Right. If there was anything Upstairs had in infinite supply, it wasn't wisdom and it sure as Hell wasn't compassion. But that was a debate for another time. Sans was enjoying himself. He had pizza and booze and disappointing college football. And good company, if he admitted it, and it was easier to admit after a few cups (not shots) of whiskey. He didn't want to spoil the evening with an argument.

 

It would be easy enough to create angels whose personalities aligned perfectly with their virtue, but no. Better to condemn a creature that could outlast time itself to a half-existence, scrupulously holding themselves in check for all eternity.

 

And theirs was not to question why. Only to obey.

 

Papyrus stared thoughtfully at the drink in his hand, gently swirling it in its plastic cup. “Quite frankly, I shouldn't be drinking this, either.”

 

“What, you're not allowed to loosen up at all?” Old bitterness welled up in Sans' voice despite his best efforts.

 

“It's an impurity,” Papyrus said, taking another sip. His words were ever-so-slightly slurred. “And it leads to poor health.”

 

Sans scoffed. “For mortals, maybe. I don't think we have anything to worry about.” He studied the angel for a moment. “How come you're drinking if you're not supposed to, then?” he asked, grinning.

 

Papyrus was at his most likable (and, to be fair, he possessed a fairly high baseline likability once Sans had got to know him) when he was bending some rule or other. That streak of rationalized defiance did a lot to mitigate his otherwise overwhelming goodness. It also tended to be pretty funny.

 

Funny was good; it kept Sans from stewing over the injustice of their lot in life, especially the angels. Not that life was a big picnic for a demon, but they were allowed to be individuals, to have private lives and feelings.

 

At least when Hell put you in chains it didn't expect you to smile and quite literally sing its praises.

 

“Well,” Papyrus said, refilling his cup again. He wound up overfilling it slightly so that some trickled over the rim onto his robes. Making an irritated noise in this throat, he swiped at the stain. “I was curious, I'll admit. And so far I don't feel any different once it's worn off.” He paused to slurp his drink down to a safer level. “Unless I'm not doing it properly.”

 

Sans held his cup out for a top-off. No way was some dorky angel going to outpace him. “Eh, you're getting along about as well as the average college kid, I'd wager.” He thought for a moment. “Better, if you count the lack of puking.”

 

Seemingly pleased by this news, Papyrus hummed softly. Accomplishments, no matter how small, delighted him.

 

“So, you're saying the whole ban on, uh...” Sans gestured with his cup, spilling a bit, “illicit stuff...you think that's all bullshit?” He wasn't going anywhere with the observation. It was just second nature to poke at the angel.

 

“I wouldn't say that,” Papyrus said, rearranging pillows to make himself more comfortable. To that end, he also relaxed his wings, letting their impressive span sweep out across the bed. They'd waged a minor war earlier over where exactly the border was between their sides of the bed. Papyrus had won, and claimed the middle of the bed. Sans accepted the annexation but stubbornly refused to move, so they'd ended up more or less leaning on one another.

 

Sans stared down at the feathery weight in his lap. He didn't mind it being there-- in his current inebriated state, it was a challenge not to cuddle into the wing because _fluffy._ He contented himself with grooming the wing with his free hand, claws smoothing over silky pinions.

 

“What _would_ you say?” His tone was teasing, but Sans really did want to know Papyrus' thoughts on all this. Temperance had been a relatively undemanding virtue in many ways. Not that staying unfailingly calm and level-headed couldn't become it's own sort of burden, but Temperance had few taboos compared with the likes of Chastity or Humility. He'd been able to experience all kinds of things, in moderation. Heh.

 

And naturally, as long as his quota was met, his current employer didn't much care what he did on his own time. Sans was a Sloth demon and it showed, but he wasn't expected to be some kind of living avatar of his vice.

 

“I think...” Papyrus trailed off, staring at nothing. For an instant, a mournful cloud passed over his face. “I think this isn't hurting anything.”

 

“I agree.” Sans took a long pull of his drink. He had an incentive to empty his cup, in the form of a wing that he wasn't grooming as thoroughly as he could be. Preening was soothing, and it had been a long time since he'd last had his own feathers to comb through.

 

And yes, it was possible that he also had a bit of a fetish. As long as Papyrus didn't mind, where was the harm?

 

Beside him, Papyrus sighed.

 

The soft sound put a curl in Sans' tail. “You okay, bro?” Swiftly hooking back the last of his whiskey, he tossed the cup aside. He ran both hands over the leading edge of Papyrus' wing, tracing the gentle, aerodynamic curves. Back when he'd still had feathers, they'd never been this pretty. Sans, as an angel, had given off the impression of a grubby street pigeon more than anything else.

 

Papyrus belonged to the same choir Sans had abandoned so long ago, but beyond having the same general form they couldn't be more different. Where Sans was short and squat, with an aura of general dumpiness that never left him no matter what he did, Papyrus was the opposite.

 

The irritating thing about Papyrus describing himself as handsome (or striking, roguishly good-looking, charming, etc.) was that it was _true._ Long limbs, glossy wings, a smile that could light up a room as much as his halo did-- the damn do-gooder was handsome. From the right angle, when he was quiet and not overexcited about something or other, Papyrus was very nearly beautiful.

 

In an academic sense, Sans had noticed this fact at their first meeting. He'd dutifully ignored it ever since. But there was something else, something that was much harder to ignore.

 

Papyrus liked him.

 

No one had genuinely liked Sans since he'd Fallen. Demons weren't big on friendship or camaraderie. For the most part, Sans didn't mind being alone. But now that he had someone who looked forward to seeing him, who enjoyed spending time with him, who cared about him…

 

Sans was aware that he'd had an intemperate amount to drink, by a wide margin. His mind was running in stupid directions.

 

His standard tactics dictated that he should defuse the strange thoughts with a joke, maybe rile Papyrus enough to earn an affronted lecture. That always leveled things out between them.

 

“So,” Sans said, tail twitching in mischief. “If you were allowed to screw, what kinda shit do you think you'd like?” He reached out to pluck at the cincture tied at Papyrus' waist. “Obviously you're into ropes.” The braided cord was a lot softer than he'd expected, a pliant weight in his claws.

 

Possibly he could have chosen a more appropriate joke, but then again the point was to make Papyrus mad. Any second now, the atmosphere would return to normal.

 

“I really can't say,” Papyrus said, dropping the ball by not getting offended like he was supposed to. “I mean, how would I know about any of it?” He turned his head slightly. Light from the TV filtered through the gap at the back of his jaw, mingling with the softer light of his halo. “You know me as well as anyone. What do you think I'd like?”

 

Well, that joke had backfired spectacularly. Sans supposed he must he rubbing off on the angel. This sort of bullshit not-really-flirting would have flustered him back when they'd first met, but evidently Papyrus could dish it out as well as he could take it now.

 

Haha. Heh. Hmm.

 

“Beats me,” Sans said, shrugging. His own wings scraped against the headboard with the motion, a squeak of bone on chemically-bonded wood. “You know what they say about you 'sweetness and light' types. You probably go in for some really twisted stuff.”

 

They lapsed into silence. By rights, Sans should be thinking up some hilarious and vaguely insulting kinks for Papyrus' hypothetical sexcapades. Instead, aforementioned hypotheticals suggested themselves to him, and he didn't dare voice them aloud. Belatedly, he realized he was still holding a loose end of the cincture, had wound it twice around his palm to feel the soft sturdiness of the cord.

 

Sans needed to sober up. He was getting weird, and all attempts at course-correction were only making things worse.

 

And he was getting too handsy with Papyrus' wing, fingers sunk down deep among the feathers. There was grooming and then there was groping, and he'd crossed from the former to the latter in the last few minutes.

 

He realized, too, that Papyrus hadn't answered his earlier question. “Are you okay?” he repeated. Reluctantly, Sans took his hands away, feathers and cincture both slipping from between his claws. Hopefully he hadn't come off as too much of a creep just now. He was self-admittedly evil, but he did have a line.

 

The scent of the feathers clung to Sans' hands.

 

Papyrus straightened, as though he'd been dozing. His eye sockets were half-lidded, unfocused. “Oh, I'm fine,” he said, voice husky. “That felt nice.” He shifted, and all at once Sans was hyper-aware of every tiny movement of the angel's body-- shoulders, spine, legs concealed beneath crisp white linen.

 

“Oh, yeah?” Sans said, mouth gone dry. They were skirting the edge of something dangerous, but whiskey and soft feathers were blotting out his better judgment. His hands returned to the wing in his lap, shyly tracing patterns across its surface. “Do you want me to keep going?”

 

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Sans knew what a stupid question that was. Assuming anything had even started (which was already a huge assumption), they _couldn't_ keep going. The part of him that housed his more demonic tendencies jumped to attention at the thought of ensnaring an angel, but Papyrus was his friend. His only friend, in fact, and Sans couldn't do that to him. They were just drunk and maudlin and having a strange night. It would pass. Once they both sobered up they'd laugh about it. After which, Sans would probably go off somewhere by himself and have a good cry.

 

Papyrus glared down at the bedspread, deep in thought. He turned, regarding Sans for a long while, expression unreadable and new.

 

He kissed him.

 

That settled the matter. Demons were useless at resisting temptation.

 

 

 

 

 

Gradually, Sans woke. He loved sleeping, and got as much of it as he could. He didn't need to sleep, of course-- just like he didn't need to eat or drink. It felt nice and killed time. Plus, he liked to think it helped him with his work. Kept him in the proper spirit.

 

This latest sleep had been particularly high quality, the kind that receded as gently as an outgoing tide, leaving him floating in a peaceful doze. Somehow, the motel's pillows not only smelled wonderful but were extra fluffy now, instead of being lumpy and mostly flat as they'd been last night.

 

Speaking of lumpy, though, the mattress left a lot to be desired. What was he tangled up with, a bicycle? Sans cracked one eye socket and froze as all remaining traces of cozy drowsiness drained away.

 

The angel was asleep, possibly for the first time.

 

And he evidently had a good reason to be tired, also for the first time.

 

Carefully, so as not to wake him, Sans removed his hand from Papyrus' ribcage and unwound his tail from around his long legs. Somehow, one of his wings had gotten pinned under the angel's, joints interlocking like mismatched puzzle pieces forced together.

 

After a fraught couple of minutes spent freeing himself, Sans rolled off the bed and pulled on his sweats, confused.

 

Then, he sat on the edge of the other bed and studied the sleeping face of his friend. To say that Papyrus looked angelic was trite, obvious, and an understatement-- all at once. Papyrus slept deeply, draped across the bed on his stomach, tangled in the sheets and with one foot dangling off the edge. His wings had unfurled to take up all of the remaining space and then some. A small, contented smile softened his mouth.

 

Amazingly, the angel didn't look the least bit impure, despite all evidence to the contrary. Memories were starting to filter back in past the black-out fog, and in any kind of logical universe, someone who'd been so thoroughly debauched should _look_ like it. If anything, Papyrus looked more radiant than ever.

 

Seeing as he was having a lot of difficulty looking away from the angel, Sans settled for hiding his face in his hands. No wonder he'd slept so well. It had been literally ages since he'd last…

 

Fuck.

 

Sans wasn't sure he'd ever groaned at his own pun, but he supposed there really was a first time for everything.

 

Just his luck that he'd be black-out drunk the one night out of the millenium that someone decided he was worth fooling around with. Not that he usually cared that much-- sex was a lot of effort, and as far as unnecessary functions were concerned, sleeping, eating and drinking were easier and more consistently enjoyable.

 

If the slashes his talons had left in the sheets and the ruined mattress were much to go on, then last night had been pretty damn enjoyable. Mutually enjoyable, he hoped, though a broken lamp out of reach of his own wings spoke to that. Sans picked a bit of the mattress' cotton fluff innards out from between his toe-claws, lost in thought.

 

This would complicate things between them. Sans hated complications. He sighed.

 

Too late now. He'd never been one to look back once he made a leap.

 

Following a sudden urge, he stood and leaned down to bury his face against one of those wings, inhaling deeply. The scent of angel feathers, musky and sweet, filled his nasal cavity. Memories, hazy, of running his fangs over the enticing juncture of wing and body drifted back to him. The way the angel smelled, tasted, felt. The sight of long-fingered, elegant hands fisted in the sheets. Soft, secret sounds that Papyrus had muffled against the mattress-- sounds no one but Sans had ever heard.

 

Shivering, Sans nuzzled the wing, feeling the slide of feathers along his teeth.

 

He remembered the soft, intermittent breeze as Papyrus tried to keep his wings still and failed. The giddy thrill of knowing how badly he'd be injured if one of the large, powerful wings hit him at full force and the surety that it wouldn't happen because Papyrus wouldn't let it happen.

 

All the same, Sans had ended up pinning them down to the bed with his power, after the lamp got knocked over. Not too hard-- he'd wanted to see the way they twitched while he...

 

It was always tempting to crawl into any available bed, but Sans was seriously wondering why he'd been in such a hurry to get out of this one. Was he stupid? Yes. Yes, he was.

 

Still, as long as he was up he might as well make himself useful. The motel sign boasted about a continental breakfast. If he'd been planning on... _this_ , he'd have gotten a room in a much nicer place. Some place with a view of the ocean and no ants.

 

He could at least bring Papyrus something to eat. It was the gentlemanly thing to do.

 

Sans wasn't sure which continent the continental breakfast referred to (Antarctica, maybe?), but it wasn't one he wanted to visit. There was a belgian waffle iron, though, and some batter that had almost certainly been left out on the counter too long. Sans made a couple waffles and artfully arranged them in the supplied styrofoam boxes. A dead fly that had been floating in the batter made it into one of the waffles by mistake, but that was okay. He'd give Papyrus the fly-free one.

 

A sudden inspiration struck him, and he asked for a few maraschino cherries from a passing employee. A clever visual pun, if he did say so himself. He took care to arrange the cherries in a smiley face. The mortal's attention slid off of him like oil off a hot pan as soon as the task was done, and Sans carried his creations back to the room in high spirits.

 

Maybe after breakfast, Papyrus would be up for another go. The more Sans' memory came back to him, the more appealing the idea grew. Maybe he'd been melodramatic last night. What was a little stress relief between friends?

 

“Hey, lazybones,” Sans called, entering their room without bothering with the key (or the door, for that matter). “Get up, I brought you...”

 

The bed was made, and Sans didn't have to peek under the covers to know that the sheets and mattress were back in perfect shape. The room was empty save for the angel's clothing scattered on the floor and a few lost feathers.

 

Sans figurative stomach dropped. He heard sniffling from the bathroom, and somehow it found a way to drop even further. Setting the boxes on the small table near the window, he approached the bathroom door.

 

“Bro?”

 

There was no answer.

 

Sans leaned against the door, listening to Papyrus cry and feeling lower than dirt. “Papyrus?”

 

Again, there was no reply. The crying quieted, in the stuttering way of someone trying hard to get himself under control.

 

Tail lashing, Sans paced back and forth in front of the door. If it had been anyone else making Papyrus so upset, he would have been hard-pressed not to rip them to pieces. However, since _he_ was the bastard responsible, he'd have to think of something else.

 

“I'm coming in,” Sans warned. No lock or door could shut out a demon. He manifested in the tiny room.

 

Papyrus was curled up in the tub, wrapped in one of the useless, too-small towels. He looked away from Sans, one wing hunched forward to hide his face.

 

Sans thought about the waffles and their stupid cherries waiting on the table. He wanted to go back in time ten minutes and punch himself. “I, um,” he said, terrified. “I think you're supposed to turn the water on.”

 

“I haven't gotten quite that far yet,” Papyrus said, voice shaking. His mouth pressed into a tight, desperate line.

 

Filled with the need to do something, no matter how pointless, Sans pulled the shower curtain closed and turned on the tap. Papyrus sat unmoving under the spray. Sans sat on the floor with his back against the tub, at an utter loss.

 

Finally, the silence grew too heavy. “So,” Sans said, fumbling with the drawstring on his pants. “Last night...” He didn't want to talk about it now that the morning was going in a very different direction then his daydreams had predicted, but what else was there?

 

“Yes,” Papyrus croaked. “You could say it was life-altering.” There was a wet slap of a wing against the tiles as he shifted. “For example, I've ruined mine.”

 

Something clenched painfully inside Sans' chest. “That bad, huh?” The joking tone was woefully unconvincing.

 

Papyrus heaved a sigh. “Not worth ruining my life over, no offense,” he said. “I think I'd have been better off not knowing.”

 

“Yeah,” Sans said, miserably. “Me, too.”

 

They sat in silence again.

 

“I'm sorry.”

 

“It wasn't your fault,” Papyrus said, barely audible over the water. He sighed, raw and despairing. “But I wish you'd pushed me away.”

 

That was exactly what Sans should have done, and he'd known it at the time. He'd _known_ there would be consequences. But the part of him that still rebelled against Heaven had won out. He wasn't an angel of Temperance anymore, and he could do what he wanted. To excess, if he wanted. And in that moment, what he'd most wanted to do was...well, Papyrus.

 

And these were the wages of his sin, and this was how his friendship with the angel ended. It would be lonely again, with no one to talk to or argue with or care about.

 

Papyrus was right. It really hadn't been worth it.

 

“I can just forget about ever getting into the upper choirs now,” Papyrus said bitterly. “No one wants some brazen fornicator for a seraph. All those centuries of forbearance, wasted. I'd be lucky to even...” Papyrus trailed off as some new, horrible thought dawned on him. He started to cry again, soft but wrenching.

 

Sans stiffened. “What?”

 

“I don't want to Fall!” The sound of the water changed as Papyrus curved his wings around himself. “What's Undyne going to say? Everyone's going to know what a disgusting person I am.”

 

It would have taken precious seconds to pull back the curtain and climb over the edge of the tub. Sans simply moved himself, manifesting inside the tub without a thought for his clothes, which were quickly soaked through under the spray of water. He nudged Papyrus' wings aside and clutched him in a fierce hug.

 

“You're not gonna Fall, and you're not disgusting.” For all that Sans liked to joke about the angel's sickening goodness, he'd never felt anything even close to disgust for Papyrus, and had trouble imagining that anyone would. But then, he'd been away from Heaven for a long time now. “And it's none of Undyne's business, or anyone else.”

 

Sans felt Papyrus shake his head. “They'll know,” he repeated, limbs trembling. On some paranoid reflex, his wings bowed around the two of them as if to shut out the world and shield them from unseen watchers.

 

Wrapped in a cocoon of iridescent feathers lit by the dimmed glow of the halo, Sans burrowed closer against Papyrus' chest. His tail clacked against the tub walls in contained rage. “How?” he snapped. “It's not like there's a mark on you.” Aside from the bite Sans had left on one shoulder blade, and perhaps a discreet bruise or two, of course. But there was no black spot, no stigmata. “You know there's no neon sign flashing 'Whore of Babylon' over your head, right?”

 

Papyrus hid his face in his hands, his shoulders hitching.

 

“Sorry.” Sans squeezed tighter in apology. “I don't think that about you.” He would gleefully disembowel anyone who did, angel or demon.

 

“What should I do?”

 

Careful not to snag his horns on his friend's arms, Sans sat up on his knees. Gently, he tugged Papyrus' hands away from his face. The look of anxiety Papyrus met his gaze with stoked his anger, though more of it was directed inward than Upstairs. Damn it, he'd known better!

 

And still, part of him focused intently on the glisten of holy light on wet feathers, the warm humidity of the air around them, the few layers of sodden fabric separating them. It was one thing to indulge in something so foolish while drunk-- what was wrong with him all of a sudden?

 

“You don't have to do anything,” Sans said, gentling his voice, trying not to let his fury (or his interest) show. “Think of it like alcohol, eh? Once it's gone, that's it. It doesn't change you.”

 

Papyrus glanced away, doubting.

 

Sans frowned. “ _Hey_.” Papyrus flinched, but returned his attention to the demon. “You're still the same,” Sans said, gesturing to the halo though he didn't dare touch it. “You're not ruined or stained or anything stupid like that, so don't believe it. You just know something you didn't before.”

 

Nodding in understanding, or at least to please Sans, Papyrus returned the hug at last, arms resting under the base of Sans' wings. “I wish I didn't,” he said, regret shading his voice.

 

That made two of them. The slight pressure lifting Sans' wings sent a tingle through them all the way to the tips. They flexed restlessly, brushing against their feathered counterparts. “Funny thing about knowledge,” Sans said, torn between the want to melt into the angel's touch and the need to do what was best for his friend. “You can't get rid of it once you've got it.”

 

Another funny thing about knowledge was that Heaven didn't seem to like it. Maybe that was why ignorance was bliss?

 

“If I promise never to do it again,” Papyrus said. “If I'm contrite, maybe they'll be merciful...”

 

Sans stiffened. “I don't think that's a good idea at all.” Fear and shame may have been Heaven's stock in trade, but they could do worse than make you feel bad about yourself. He could see no benefit in Papyrus meekly handing himself over to be judged.

 

Papyrus blinked down at him. “Why? It'll be worse if Undyne finds out some other way.”

 

“She's not going to find out,” Sans said, renewed stress pooling in his belly. “Look, if anyone, Upstairs or Downstairs, gets wind that we've been hanging out it's not gonna go well for either of us.”

 

Hell could care less about who or what Sans fucked, but a friendship with one of the enemy wouldn't fly. He'd been sticking his neck out since they'd first met, simply by not allowing the Nephilim to kill the angel. He hadn't known what had moved him to act then, and he didn't know what force drove him to keep Papyrus safe now, but he could no more deny it than he could deny his own nature. Neither Heaven nor Hell could find out about them.

 

Papyrus frowned. “I didn't think of that,” he said, wings drawing in closer. “I'm being selfish, just worrying about myself. You'll get in trouble, too, won't you?”

 

“Bro,” Sans said, with a rueful smile. “Let's just say you wouldn't see me again.” No one would. Ever. If he was lucky, his superiors Downstairs would merely kill him.

 

“Oh.” Cringing, Papyrus gathered Sans closer, curling around him protectively. “And I'm worth that to you?”

 

“You're my only friend,” Sans admitted, shrugging in the angel's arms. “And we've been smart about this up until now. Neither of us is important enough for anyone to ask about,” he said, not sparing Papyrus' ego in the face of his continued safety, “but you can't go telling your boss that you're not 'pure,' or whatever, because then the questions will start and everything's gonna come down around our heads. Trust me, you won't like what happens. There's plenty of things worse than Falling.”

 

After a tense moment while Papyrus considered Sans' words, the angel nodded. “Okay,” he said, quietly. “I won't.”

 

Sans exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. “Good,” he said, as visions of the nastier aspects of Hell receded. He relaxed against the angel, enjoying the closer embrace more than he knew he should have.

 

“What should we do, then?”

 

“It might be best,” Sans said, “if we just put this out of mind and went on like normal.” As difficult as that was going to be. Sans wasn't lost in romantic notions of them running away together to live a quiet life in the mountains, but he would have been okay with 'friends-with-benefits.'

 

Brow furrowed, Papyrus touched a long finger to his mouth. “Pretend it never happened, you mean?”

 

Sans nodded. “Once we leave this room, we don't speak of it again.” With any luck, eventually they really would forget. The thought that last night had been a one-off sucked, but that was how it had to be, not least of all for the sake of their friendship. Papyrus was pretty traumatized, even if it wasn't the sex itself that was the problem. It would only make him more anxious and unhappy to let it continue.

 

Still, Sans hated being told not to do something, even when he was telling himself. He growled softly, tail lashing in the shallow water that had pooled in the tub.

 

He was literally in a cold shower, and he'd never been so keyed up and frustrated.

 

“I suppose there's nothing else to do,” Papyrus said, absently rubbing the space between Sans' wings. He was still dejected, but the panic had faded. Hopefully he'd come to terms with being an unchaste angel of Chastity sooner than later.

 

Squirming and hating himself for what he was about to say, Sans cleared his throat. This. This was why he belonged in Hell. “On that note,” he said, plastering on his best joker's grin, “we haven't left yet, so there's still time if you wanted to-”

 

“If you ask,” Papyrus said, cutting him off, “then I'll have to tell you no.”

 

His somber expression made Sans feel clownish, and the grin wilted. Star-bright eyes bore into him, questioning, piercing every defense Sans might have raised.

 

Part of Sans wanted to complain that he was supposed to be corrupting seducer here, and that the angel wasn't letting him properly serve his role. Another part insisted that he needed to back off, that he was taking advantage and degrading his friend.

 

Papyrus moved the towel aside, and the greater part of Sans reminded him that he'd been alone a long time, and that the angel was beautiful, and that any demonic pride or vestigial angelic guilt he held could wait outside until they were done.

 

Sparing one hand to tug down the waistband of his sweats, Sans pushed Papyrus back against the tub. Fingertips screeled against chipped porcelain as Papyrus threw a hand out to catch himself. One cramped wing thumped against the tiles, scattering water droplets across Sans' back.

 

Heeding Papyrus' warning, Sans didn't ask if this was still okay. The unspoken question was answered soon enough when the angel reached up to pull Sans against him. He gasped in pain as Sans entered him, still tender from last night.

 

The sound sent a dark thrill down Sans' spine, drew an answering growl from his own throat. He was a demon, after all, with a demon's appetites. He stilled for a minute to let Papyrus adjust to the intrusion, letting himself openly admire the angel. The grubby, mildewed tub only made him look cleaner, more perfect. It struck Sans then how ludicrous it was to imagine that anything could ever make Papyrus unclean, any more than Hell-fire could become wet. Nothing could stain him-- not the mortal plane and its miseries, not Sans himself, or anyone else (though the thought of that rankled, if he was honest with himself, and he rarely was).

 

He would have liked to say so, to reassure the angel that there was no way he'd ever Fall unless he decided he wanted to. But this situation was strange enough already. The last thing either of them needed was Sans spouting a bunch of emotional nonsense. Instead, he started moving, slow and shallow. Mesmerized, he watched patterns of holy light dance across the water sluicing through Papyrus' chest.

 

Teeth gritted against lingering soreness, Papyrus hissed and gripped him tighter in every respect.

 

Sans paused again. “Try to relax,” he said, already light-headed and fighting to keep still. Kneading the angel's hip with one hand, he sat up. He hooked his other arm under Papyrus' thigh, an easier angle. Feathers brushed his shoulder. Papyrus' wings had to be aching, bound by such a small space. Turning his head, Sans nuzzled against the wing, nibbling along the leading edge. A shiver shook beads of water free. Raising a hand to pull the wing closer and force it into a deeper stretch, Sans dragged his claws through the thick feathers.

 

The wing jerked in his grip, and Papyrus flexed around him. Sans couldn't keep still any longer, but this time the angel's groans held a far different tenor. Hand grasping Sans by the collarbones, Papyrus pulled him close again, pushing himself up on one shaking elbow to press his mouth to Sans' in a demanding kiss. His limber frame accommodated the movement easily, all taut curves like a bow at full draw.

 

Sans reminded himself through the haze of uncharacteristic lust that he needed to be gentle. With the way Papyrus was clutching at him, though, it was hard to be anything but. He could find no purchase against the tub, talons scrabbling uselessly. Long legs locked around his waist so tightly he could barely withdraw, as though Papyrus couldn't bear to have anything less than all of him for even the half-second between thrusts.

 

Arm slipping, Papyrus fell flat on his back with a splashing thump and a grunt. One wing swung out to tangle in the shower curtain, ripping it from the rod to let in the thin light from the fluorescent fixture in the ceiling. Neither of them paid it much notice. Sans followed him down, claws dug into the angel's shoulders to anchor himself. They rocked together, a feeling like molten honey creeping down Sans' back and limbs. Papyrus held him close, fingers caressing his neck and the base of his wings, ghosting over the membrane in ways that made him shiver and his tail curl.

 

Grinning against Papyrus' mouth, Sans drank up every hushed sound the angel offered, more secrets for him to keep. His knees were getting sore, the thin fleece of his sweats insufficient padding on the hard surface, but Sans didn't care. He'd do this all day if Papyrus let him. Or, at least until housekeeping showed up.

 

He'd known they wouldn't last long, but as the familiar feeling of release started to build up, Sans couldn't help but feel almost mournful about it. He missed this, and it wasn't even over yet.

 

Climax took Papyrus by surprise, as was to be expected. With a shuddering moan, he crushed Sans to his chest, clamping down on him almost hard enough to hurt. _Almost_ being the key word.

 

“Holy fuck,” Sans groaned, lasting only another handful of quick thrusts before he came hard enough to make stars dance behind his eyes.

 

His unintended pun was, for once, entirely lost on him.

 

As uncomfortable as the tub was, the two lay there for a few minutes while they collected themselves. Papyrus gazed up at the stained ceiling, one leg draped over the side of the tub and the fallen remains of the shower curtain. Water slowly puddled on the bathroom floor, but considering the state of the motel it could only make it cleaner.

 

Sans drifted on a happy cloud (a raincloud, since the shower was still on). What was it he'd said-- that once they left the room, this part was over? He wondered how practical it would be to barricade the door.

 

Sans started awake to a sharp flick on the tip of his nasal bone.

 

“Sans!”

 

“What?” Sans growled, burying his face against Papyrus' chest to protect it from further attack.

 

“You fell asleep,” Papyrus huffed. “Get up! I'm not carrying you.”

 

With great reluctance, Sans pushed himself up to his bruised knees. Ow. He looked around, taking in the mess they'd made of the bathroom. “Huh,” he said. “Where's the water?” The shower had shut off somehow, or had the place run out of water somehow? It wouldn't shock him.

 

Raising a brow, Papyrus wiggled the toes of one foot. Of course he could reach the tap.

 

Sans realized his face had taken on a speculative cast, and he shook his head to dislodge it. “Right,” he said, sneering. “I get it, you're tall. You want a medal?”

 

“I deserve one for putting up with you,” Papyrus fired back, but they were both too mellowed out to manage any decent repartee. He stood on shaking legs as soon as Sans was up and out of his way, taking care not to slip. His wing joints cracked audibly as he shook the water from them and settled them back into their natural positions. “That's better,” he said, stretching.

 

Sans straightened his sweats, drying them with a subtle application of infernal flame. Papyrus' clothing was still scattered in the other room, and Sans found himself sneaking shy glances at the angel, suddenly self-conscious. When he next looked up, the shower curtain was whole and back in its proper place, and the water was gone. Papyrus' wings were immune to such miracles, though, and the angel sighed about them as he walked to the other room to gather up his clothes.

 

“It never fails,” he said, shaking the wrinkles out of the robes. “Every time I clean them, something immediately has to mess them up again.”

 

Sans flopped down on the nearer bed and watched him dress, paying particular attention to the lacing of his sandals as they criss-crossed up his legs. “They wouldn't shed so much if you'd chill out a little,” he said, because it was true. He reached up and snagged a drifting feather out of the air. He twirled it in his claws, watching how it caught the morning light through the dirty window. “There's waffles.”

 

Papyrus finished adjusting his cincture and looked up. “In general, or nearby?”

 

Sitting up, Sans pointed to the boxes on the table. “They're cold by now, but I did make them myself, so… No, not that one,” he said, as Papyrus picked up the wrong box. “Give me that one. You want the bottom one. There's a dead fly lurking somewhere in the other one.”

 

“Of course there is,” Papyrus said, rolling his eyes. He handed Sans the dead-fly waffle and sat down next to him with his own. Opening the box, he looked down at the cherry smile.

 

Sans chuckled nervously, tail twitching. He'd kind of forgotten about the cherries already. “Get it?” he said, hoping like hell that Papyrus wasn't too angry. “It's a...congratulations waffle.”

 

Papyrus gave him a sidelong look. He picked up a cherry (the left eye, not that it mattered) and popped it into his mouth. Sans tried not to stare.

 

They picked at their cold breakfast with their fingers, since Sans had forgotten to grab forks. He was finding he wasn't very hungry. The silence was oppressive. After a few minutes, he set the box aside.

 

“Still friends?” he blurted, to his own surprise.

 

Setting his own box down, Papyrus caught him around the shoulders in a hug. “Of course we are,” he said, an undercurrent of deep relief in his voice. “This doesn't change anything. Like you said.”

 

“Heh.” Sans was having doubts about that, but for now he hugged the angel back. “Good. Glad to hear it.”

 

His gaze drifted to the door, and he frowned.


	5. Is it still hip to compare your lover's eyes to rock doves, or...? (Sans/Papyrus knock-off Reborntale)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Commissioned by a mysterious patron of the arts! With additional sponsorship and beta from queenofsintale. :D
> 
> To the surprise of no one, these two have a hard time sticking to their "just friends" agreement.  
> Content: fontcest (they're unrelated in this AU), wing kink, awkward sex of the non-soul variety, awkwardness in general.

A few miles outside the city limits and a few miles from the shoreline, there was a hill with a single tree growing at the top. It wasn’t particularly large, or pretty, or even healthy. But it was there, and its branches were sturdy.

Papyrus glared up into the tree. “What are you doing?”

“I’m a bat,” Sans said, grinning. If he’d had blood, he would have passed out by now. Being blood-free, he dangled quite comfortably from his branch. He hadn’t expected to beat the angel here, but the cat-nap (er, bat-nap) had been welcome.

“Bats hang by their feet, don’t they?” Papyrus crossed his arms, frowning incredulously. “I’m fairly certain of it.”

Details, details. “I’m a possum, then.”

“I don’t think they actually hang by their tails. I think that’s a myth.”

Sans rolled his eyes. Sometimes he wished Papyrus weren’t quite so earnest— but then he wouldn’t be Papyrus. “Look who’s David Attenborough over here. Bro’s on the mortal plane for a handful of decades and suddenly he’s an expert on everything.”

“Am I not supposed to pay attention to all that television you insist on watching?” Though still frowning, Papyrus’ tone turned playful.

“Yeah, yeah.” Unfurling his wings, Sans stretched his arms. Sleeping like this, cozy as it was, always left him somewhat stiff.

His spine was nicely decompressed, at least.

It would have been easy to simply appear on the ground, but there was a limit to even his laziness. Loosening the coils of his tail, he slipped from the branch, flipping right-side up on the way down to land almost gracefully on his feet. He couldn’t help a little ‘ta-da!’ gesture as he straightened.

The angel’s golf clap was almost certainly meant to be ironic, but he bowed anyway.

“Well, no TV today,” Sans said, nodding at their sickeningly pastoral surroundings. The city’s lights glimmered in the distance like morning stars, white and amber and red, adding color to the monochrome purple-gray of predawn twilight. Papyrus liked to watch the sunrise out here where the horizon was actually visible. Sans didn’t see the point, himself, but he had nothing better to do at the moment.

Early morning was a notoriously slow time of day, by demonic reckoning. Peak sinning hours fell right before lunchtime and just after midnight. Everyone knew that. There was a certain baseline level of sin, but fatigue and good old-fashioned mortal unhappiness took care of most of it. None but the most industrious mortals needed urging from a Sloth demon to call off work ‘sick’ so they could sleep in and watch soap operas.

Papyrus spied him yawning and shook his head, setting his hands on his hips. “The day’s just starting! Surely you’re not tired.”

“’Tired?’” Sans grinned. “Going native, bro? Not like I gotta sleep.” He smirked at the angel’s guilty blush. “Someone’s picked up a habit, I think.”

“Nothing of the kind,” Papyrus grumbled. His feathers bristled at the accusation. “Resting my eyes now and then is nothing like the time-wasting you do.”

“Hey, you should be happy I’ve been slacking off so much,” Sans argued, grin wavering. Downstairs wasn’t happy, that was for sure. Ever since he’d met Papyrus, it was getting harder to make quota, let alone surpass it like he used to. His last few annual reviews had been downright dismal.

It was that look the angel gave him. That ‘I’m not mad but I am disappointed’ look that had him feeling like his wings still bore their ill-suited feathers and he was still beholden to a different set of rules. He couldn’t get anything done while Papyrus was around, and what tempting he did manage was growing increasingly petty. Sloth was best employed in small ways, yes, but there was such a thing as too small. Lately, Sans was no more danger to a mortal soul than a bad case of the Mondays, or the ineffectual comic-relief villain in a kids’ show. He wouldn’t be able to bullshit his superiors forever, and getting fired meant something very different and much more literal for a demon than for a mortal.

But what was he supposed to do? Letting a mortal escape his influence made the angel so happy.

They walked a little ways from the tree and settled down on a patch of thick, soft grass. Sans watched Papyrus shift and fidget, trying to find a comfortable position for his wings. His own were quite manageable. Though they were smaller and far weaker, they were also more flexible. He pulled his wings around himself loosely, clasping their thumb-claws together at his collarbones like a fashionable cloak.

Never mind that cloaks hadn’t been fashionable for over a century. Gladiator sandals had come back around, after all, so it was only a matter of time.

Papyrus’ grousing about bent pinions drew a chuckle from him. “Do you need help?”

“I’m fine,” Papyrus said, giving up on finding the perfect configuration. “You know, sometimes I wish these things were detachable.” He made a mostly failed effort to look relaxed, sitting on his knees with his wings held trailing out behind him to keep the flight feathers as straight as possible.

“Tail’s the same,” Sans commiserated. “I think it goes out of its way to get shut in doors.”

He glanced back to admire the swooping shape of Papyrus’ wings and the muted luster of their plumage in the gloom. The thought of the angel crouched in an uncomfortable ball on the hillside every morning struck him as more than a little silly, but then the angel’s internal logic was often hard to get his head around. “You’re gonna get a cramp. Is this what you usually do?”

Papyrus shook his head, looking pointedly upward.

Sans followed his gaze to the steel-violet clouds, a wistful sound escaping his throat. “Oh. Yeah, I guess that makes more sense.”

There was no way he’d ever be able to match the angel in the air. Despite appearances, Sans could fly with his stunted wings, but not well, and not for long. It was one more thing they would never be able to share, and he found his mood sink the longer he watched the clouds scudding across the sky.

“You get a wonderful view of the coast if you stay below the clouds. Of course,” Papyrus added hastily, “this is nice, too.”

Below the clouds. Implying that Papyrus could climb above them. Yeah, no. The angel had made the right call in assuming Sans couldn’t keep up. He’d only hurt himself trying.

It bothered him that Papyrus was putting up with the discomfort of holding his wings in an odd position on the ground for his sake. “We could stand, if that would be better.”

“You’d just try to talk me into carrying you,” Papyrus said. A smile tugged at his mouth. “Like usual.”

“Hey, you try going around barefoot all the time, see if you don’t get sore!” Sans wiggled his toe-claws. “Besides, I gotta stand on my toes. It’s a lot of weight in one spot.” Which was all true, but mostly he just liked being held. If he had to whine incessantly about aching feet to make that happen, then he would do so without shame.

Maybe he’d pulled that trick too often, though, and Papyrus had caught on.

“You’re not that heavy,” Papyrus said, half-chiding. “But fine, point taken.”

A breeze came up from the direction of the water, cool and salt-smelling. Without thinking about it, Sans slipped one wing around the angel, the leading edge bumping up against the base of Papyrus’ wings and the thumb-claw anchored around his upper arm, careful not to rip his sleeve.

“The cold isn’t bothering me,” Papyrus said, but didn’t shrug him off. True, physical temperature didn’t mean a whole lot to either of them, but they did have preferences. For Sans’ part, he preferred being warm and assumed Papyrus did, too. The leathery membrane of his wings wasn’t as insulating as Papyrus’ feathers, but it made a decent windbreaker, at least.

The conversation tapered off, and they sat watching the pinks and golds of dawn push the remains of the night westward. Pleasantly bored, Sans stole glances at the angel next to him, wondering what he got out of this daily ritual. Papyrus’ face was calm and serene, difficult to read but nice enough just to look at. The gathering light painted him in delicate hues, complementing the glow of his halo. Not for the first time, Sans marveled at how well the mortal plane suited him. Heaven would have washed him out, overpowering his natural light and flattening his form into blinding chalk-white. Creation was more thoughtful, more grateful to have him. It let him shine, surrounding him like the setting of a precious stone.

…Well, it was always nice to get the Lamest Thought Of The Day out of the way early. Sans forced his eyes back to the sunrise, for all he couldn’t care less about it. Still, is was nice to have an excuse to simply sit beside Papyrus and enjoy his presence. Very relaxing…

He woke curled against Papyrus’ side with a crick in his neck and shivers running down his spine. At some point he’d dozed off, which wasn’t surprising. What did surprise him was the extent to which Papyrus had let him encroach on his personal space. Both wings wrapped around the angel in a leathery hug, and his tail wound tight around one leg.

Papyrus was more or less ignoring him, admiring the disk of the sun as it broke the horizon. He supported Sans in his arms, stroking the membrane and joints of his wings thoughtlessly. Each touch sent a little jolt of electricity skittering over his wings and spine to ground in his pelvis. There was a noticeable damp spot at the gusset of his pants already, and he ached.

Great. Today was gonna suck. That part of the relationship was over as soon as it had begun, by mutual agreement. Memories of their past indiscretion resurfaced at the worst times.

Still, Sans stayed where he was, head pillowed against Papyrus’ chest. He tried to keep from tensing up, to give no sign that he was awake. It was stupid, of course. The longer he sat here soaking up platonic affection (that wasn’t foreplay no matter how much he wished otherwise), the harder the rest of the morning was going to be. In more ways than one.

“You drooled on my robes.”

He flinched at the angel’s voice. “Oh? Sorry.” Guilt washed over him, wholly unrelated to the alleged drool.

Papyrus stopped his petting, and he looked down at Sans, concerned. “Are you alright?”

Was Sans imagining the knowing tone in his voice? They never could speak plainly about this subject, could they? They’d tear at one another’s worldviews and deepest beliefs for gleeful hours, but this one thing was a bridge too far, too vulnerable to acknowledge.

“No,” Sans said. No point putting up a front when the angel could probably feel the tension humming through his frame. Hell, the poor guy’s leg would have gone numb if there’d been any nerves to pinch with the coils of his tail.

“This doesn’t usually bother you,” Papyrus said, with an inflection on the word ‘bother’ that left no remaining doubt as to the topic of conversation.

Sans shrugged, shivering as the movement dragged a slender hand along his wings. “Caught me the wrong way this time, I guess.” Papyrus’ assertion wasn’t in any way true, but he could usually keep his…frustrations to himself until he was alone. Any contact was better than none.

“Sorry,” Papyrus said, and had the grace to look nearly as embarrassed as Sans felt. “Should I stop?”

“What do you think?” Sans growled, churlish in spite of himself. He shook his head, careful not to gore Papyrus by accident. No. It wasn’t the angel’s fault that he was such a sad mess, and there was no reason to be a dick about this. …So to speak. “It’s fine,” he said, with an apologetic glance. “Just gonna need a few minutes to walk it off.”

He moved to untangle himself so he could do just that (or, more correctly, vanish to discreetly masturbate like the civilized demon he was), but Papyrus’ arms stayed firmly in place around him.

Sans blinked, puzzled. “What?”

“Um.” Papyrus kept his gaze trained on the horizon. If he’d had lips, he’d probably be gnawing them. “You don’t have to leave, if you wanted to…”

What was he suggesting? Sans tensed. “You got something to share with the class? Complete sentences might help.”

Long fingers knotted up the fabric of Sans’ hoodie. Blushing furiously, Papyrus stammered, “Well, technically, as long as I’m not doing anything to…participate, it wouldn’t really be…” Even his halo seemed to blush, flaring like a light bulb about to burn out. “It wouldn’t count.”

Sans had no words for the emotion he was currently feeling. Possibly that funny record-scratch noise. “Are you saying,” he said, sitting up in Papyrus’ arms to face him, forcing the angel to meet his eyes, “that you’re cool with me taking care of myself right here? Am I translating your Awkward into English properly?”

Hell, if the angel was offering, he’d be stupid to say no. But what had brought this on? Did Papyrus want to watch him? Sans found his own face heating at the thought. “Voyeurism doesn’t count against chastity, huh?” he said, with a strained chuckle. “Is that what you do with your free time— watch mortals getting it on?”

The angel pulled a face. “I do not, and I don’t appreciate the implication!” Papyrus scolded. He glanced aside, cheekbones glowing. “I was planning on shutting my eyes.”

Ah. Not watching, then. Sans supposed he wouldn’t be much to look at, anyway.

“It’s so crazy it just might work,” he said, moving to straddle Papyrus’ leg and feeling less unsure about the whole idea the more he thought about it. For whatever reason, Papyrus was momentarily relaxing his standards, and it wasn’t in his best interest to question that. Besides, the ridiculously legalistic rationale behind the offer made him smile. “I love it when you’re tricky.”

“Yes, well,” Papyrus coughed, squeezing his eye sockets shut. His face took on a look of intense concentration, as if he were thinking about baseball and cold showers to a depth that a mere mortal mind couldn’t fathom. Like a lot of things Papyrus did, it was more endearing than it had any right to be.

Sans rocked his hips, savoring the friction of cotton and the stiffer linen of the robes, the firmness of the thigh underneath. He watched for any shift in Papyrus’ expression, whether pleasure or distress, but aside from hands releasing Sans’ wings to hover uncertainly at his hips— not touching— the angel was unmoved.

Sensing a challenge, Sans looped his arms around his friend’s neck, pressing their bodies flush together. He buried his face against Papyrus’ neck, losing himself in the scent of myrrh and the soft hitch of breath as he rode Papyrus’ thigh. This close, he could feel the tension building up in the angel’s body. Not unmoved, then. Just unmoving.

It’s like dry-fucking a statue. Papyrus’ total lack of involvement had been part of the deal, though, and Sans resisted the urge to tease him about it. It had been beyond his imagining to be offered even this much. In the spirit of taking what he could get, he was going to make the most of the opportunity for both their sakes.

When Sans next lifted his head, Papyrus’ expression was still unchanged. His feathers stood on end, though, shivering like blades of grass in the wind. Sans shifted, and his knee brushed against a more obvious tell. Hmm. He repeated the motion, ‘accidentally’ sliding his knee against the angel’s groin.

With an indignant squawk, Papyrus seized Sans’ hips, stilling him. “Sans!”

“What?” Sans said, meeting Papyrus’ glare with a smile. “I slipped, honest!” He had no eyelashes to flutter, but the cold hellfire light of his eyes flickered with mischief. “Thought you were falling asleep for a minute, there. You bored? I would be.” A bold lie, if he’d ever told one. The image of the angel pressing up against him, eager and desiring, had been a staple of an embarrassing proportion of his daydreams ever since that night.

Their first and last, er, ‘romantic encounter’ hadn’t been so long ago, not for an immortal. A decade was an eye-blink. All the same, it felt like ages had passed. For all he tried to convince himself that he was content with their relationship as it was, he wanted more.

Not that it mattered. Their friendship was more important than any of his petty physical wants— he still believed that as strongly as ever. He hoped this brief respite wouldn’t cause problems even as he pleasured himself with the angel’s body.

“I’m supposed to be bored,” Papyrus snapped, pulling him from his thoughts. “Will you hurry up, please?”

The words might have stung, if not for the obvious quaver in the angel’s voice and the hardness between his legs.

“Okay.” Sans shrugged, and hiked his leg up and over to fully straddle Papyrus’ hips.

Bristling, Papyrus made to shove him off his lap.

“Take it easy, bro,” Sans said, mindful of his horns as he bumped their foreheads lightly together. His tail rubbed along the hollow behind Papyrus’ knee. “You said to hurry up, right? This’ll go quick— I’m man enough to admit it.” Flexing the wings he still held around the angel, he hooked their thumb-claws around Papyrus’ arms to encourage him to let go.

Papyrus obeyed with less hesitation than expected, an uncertain frown marring his face. He made eye contact for a split second, a too-close flicker of light before his gaze darted off to the side. “This isn’t-”

Sans sighed. “Are you doing anything? No? Then it still doesn’t count.” He shivered, grinding down on Papyrus’ lap and quickly finding his rhythm again. “Technicalities, right?” he rasped, relishing the angel’s hardness against him through their clothing. Still a pale shadow of what he actually wanted, but better than before and infinitely better than nothing. Especially when Papyrus was visibly struggling to maintain his composure.

If Sans’ unholy bits weren’t getting quite enough excitement, at least he could witness the effect he was having. Every strangled whine, every twitch of movement as Papyrus fought to keep still set him burning. He wasn’t above enjoying the occasional power trip.

A long-fingered hand clutched at his back, not halting him but just…there. “Careful,” Sans whispered against Papyrus’ cheek. “You’re supposed to be ignoring me.”

“Ngh,” Papyrus protested, shivering. He bucked up against Sans, control slipping momentarily.

That was just enough to put Sans over the edge, orgasm rolling through him in a shuddering wave set off as much as anything else by thoughts of what they might do without all this fucking clothing and Papyrus’ fucking paranoia in the way.

Ha. Fucking paranoia. Literally.

Dizzy and relaxed, Sans clung to Papyrus, nuzzling under his jaw in contentment and wordless apology. He’d expected— hoped, actually— that the angel’s relative inexperience coupled with a long bout of celibacy would mean he’d be able to make this satisfying for both of them. His efforts hadn’t quite done the trick, if the warm pressure against his pelvis was anything to go by. If anything, he’d made the situation worse than if he’d just shoved his hand down his sweatpants for a couple awkward minutes.

Papyrus was stiff as a board (heh), teeth clenched and limbs rigid. “Are you finished?” he asked as he gently pushed Sans off his lap.

“Sure,” Sans said, sheepish. He pulled his wings away from Papyrus’ torso, folding them along his back once more, and unwound his tail from Papyrus’ leg. “You okay?”

The angel shook his head, crossing his arms glumly. “That might not have been my greatest idea ever,” he said. It was rare to hear him admit to anything less than excellence in everything, but this wasn’t the day to give him a hard time about it.

Hard time. Heh. He had a million of ‘em this morning.

All joking aside, Sans wasn’t feeling too good about more or less transferring his discomfort to his friend, who had no choice but to wait it out. Unfairness in any measure annoyed him (some old habits died harder than others), and it was that much worse when he was the cause. He reached out to smooth down a few feathers. They sprang right back up. “I could fix these for you?” he said, dislodging a loose pinion and twirling it in his fingers. “Might help you simmer down.”

Actual grooming with no funny stuff was relaxing, after all. It was one of the few physical intimacies Papyrus could enjoy without worry.

“Maybe,” Papyrus said, understandably not thrilled about having to ‘walk off’ his own problem. It wasn’t like he had other options, though.

…Or maybe he did. How far did this ‘technicality’ stretch? The only real limitation they had was Papyrus’ weird guilt complex. If Sans could navigate that, he could do the chivalrous thing and reciprocate, fair and square. And he’d get a little more quality time with the angel. Who knew when that would happen again, if ever?

Hey, it wasn’t in a demon’s nature to be wholly altruistic. He was supposed to be greedy and selfish.

With a brief pause to sear away the stain on his pants with a touch of hellfire, Sans knelt between the angel’s backswept wings. With the feathers bushed out, they looked extra fluffy and inviting. The loose plumes would be harder to pick out, though. He’d have to be thorough so as not to miss any. It would take a while.

Gosh, what a nuisance. Darn.

It was well and truly daytime now, and the sunlight glinted over the surface of each feather as Sans tested them, tugging at each one gently. The loose feathers, he plucked out and absently placed in his pocket for safekeeping. Most of the feathers he tried were firmly anchored, and drew a smothered gasp when he handled them.

“You’re taking much longer than you need to back there,” Papyrus said, probably trying to sound disapproving but coming off desperate.

“That’s what she said. It’d go faster if you’d smooth these down,” Sans retorted. He ran his claws up the backs of Papyrus’ wings, back-combing the feathers even more.

Papyrus moaned, low and almost pained. “Can’t,” he hissed, and it wasn’t clear whether he was talking about his feathers or something else.

On hearing the sound he’d been denied for so long, Sans crowded closer to lean against Papyrus’ back. “This isn’t sex,” he said, resting his chin on Papyrus’ shoulder. His wings opened to overlay the angel’s, their thumb-claws dragging through feathers and the membranes applying only the broadest, lightest pressure.

Papyrus didn’t reply, fists clenched on his thighs, bunching up the white linen. His teeth squeaked with how hard he clenched them, but a needy whine escaped regardless.

“It isn’t,” Sans repeated, despite all feelings to the contrary. He was going to be right back where he started before long if Papyrus kept making noises like that. “You’re still not doing anything but sitting here quietly, yeah? Let me help.”

“This isn’t helping.” So subtly that he might not have noticed himself doing it, Papyrus pressed his weight back against Sans.

“You don’t know,” Sans said, catching himself before he could lay his hands where he shouldn’t. “It might.” It was a pretty weak sell when he put it that way. The words had sounded more seductive in his head.

He really needed to work on his game.

Hey, bro, has anyone ever told you your teeth are like a flock of sheep? …Nah.

How’s about you come over to my locked garden and sample its choicest fruits sometime, baby? Shit, he was so bad at this stuff. Maybe he should just be quiet.

To keep his hands from wandering south, Sans smoothed over the undersides of the angel’s wings, where the feathers were even softer. Papyrus shivered, wings twitching under the teasing touches.

With the pretense of preening (preen-tense?) already blown, Sans dug in, massaging firmly. Warm, silky feathers slid through his claws. Under the softness, he could feel the bone and holy essence that made up the wing’s structure. It flexed in his hold, and strength radiated from every slight movement. His own wings were somewhat at risk, spread over their more powerful counterparts as they were. They were dexterous enough that Sans could maneuver them much like an extra set of arms, stroking and petting. One strong swipe of Papyrus’ wings could snap the fine bones that supported the membranes like so many twigs.

Such a thing would never happen. Sans trusted Papyrus completely when it came to this. The hint of danger sent a thrill up his spine, though, chasing the shivers from the soft glide of feathers against his membranes. It had been so long since he’d been able to touch the angel like this, to indulge this particular vice. He didn’t know if it was really possible to come just from wing-play, but he was going to have a great time finding out.

Lifting his head from Papyrus’ shoulder, Sans turned to nuzzle one wing. He inhaled deeply, as though he could store up the musky-sweet scent for later. “You smell so good.” He blushed as he realized he’d spoken aloud.

Papyrus laughed, breathy and unsteady. The sound made Sans’ insides dance. “Anything must be an improvement over brimstone,” he said, uncharacteristically humble, shivering at the hot breath rustling his feathers. He leaned a bit more into Sans.

Finding himself sliding back a little in the grass, Sans dug his toe-claws into the turf to anchor himself. To save himself some embarrassment (it would kill the mood if he tumbled over backwards), he used a fraction of his power to hold Papyrus in place. Feathers drooped, bent under infernal force.

Papyrus neither fought against the force keeping him pinned nor commented on it. Trust went both ways. Sans noticed his breaths were shallower, though. He smiled as he nibbled and licked along the leading edge of first one quivering wing and then the other. It was gratifying to think that the angel might enjoy being restrained in a way that, as far as he knew, only he could do.

Sans did everything he could think of to the beautiful wings under his hands. (…Well, alright, not everything— he was sure Papyrus would disapprove of one or two of his ideas.) Every inch of them was mapped out with claws, teeth, and tongue. He caressed the smooth flight surfaces with a breeze-light touch. He bunched handfuls of feathers in his grasp, digging in to pull and scratch and knead as he rubbed himself against the angel from behind because holy shit, he was more worked up now than he’d been when he’d woken up to that nice little petting session earlier. A feral growl built in the back of his throat, muffled against feathers made damp with his saliva.

An unforeseen bonus, Sans’ power kept Papyrus’ hands firmly pressed to his own thighs, unable to raise them to stifle the moans and half-formed words spilling from his mouth. The sounds edged into pleas as the minutes ticked by, ragged sobs punctuating every bite and squeeze. He trembled, tense, as though balanced on a fine wire.  
  
Sans paused, and not just because he needed a breather himself. “Are you close?” He was, and he didn’t want to go zero for two.

Still shaking, the angel nodded.

Following a suspicion, Sans asked, “How long have you been close?”

Papyrus hesitated, opening and closing his fists. “A while,” he panted, voice rough. He glanced back over his shoulder, and winced when Sans frowned at him. “Not long after you started, um, this,” he added. His cheekbones fairly blazed with shame and arousal.

“And you weren’t going to say anything?” Sans didn’t know why he was surprised. “Or is edging your thing?” The question wasn’t meant to be pejorative— he honestly didn’t know much of what the angel liked beyond what he was learning now. Not that Papyrus knew, either…

Squirming, Papyrus shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

Sans growled, tail lashing in the grass. Great, so he was just making the angel miserable. This morning was completely out of hand, and he was tired of humoring the ugly idea that Papyrus was somehow degrading himself. “Would you please,” he said, stopping his ministrations to wrap his arms around Papyrus’ chest, “let me touch you? It can be my fault.” It basically was, anyway.

Papyrus’ only answer was a tormented groan.

Enough. Sans had heard that tone before, and if the emotional tailspin had already started, he might as well give the angel some relief. Sometimes decisions could be a burden.

He was careful not to expose Papyrus as he reached up under the skirts of his robes. As much as he’d have liked to see, he didn’t want to heap any more irrational shame onto his friend. His hand found Papyrus’ cock, wrapping around the shaft. Papyrus yelped in shock, but remained still. His self control was kind of amazing. Also kind of hot.

“Wow,” Sans said, keeping his grip gentle. Papyrus was painfully hard, dripping with need. “Sorry, bro. Didn’t mean to leave you hanging.”

Ha. Hanging. Not the best pun of the morning, but not bad. He was on a roll.

Poor Papyrus wouldn’t have gotten the wordplay, if he could process language at all right now. While Sans worked him, memorizing every contour (for future contemplation), the angel babbled incoherent but very attractive nonsense.

After being held at the edge for so long, there was no way Papyrus could last. He shouted as he came, convulsing once, hard enough to nearly throw off Sans’ hold on him. Chest heaving and face streaked with tears, he sagged back against Sans. His limbs trembled like plucked strings.

“Better?” Sans’ voice was weak as he withdrew his hand. He stared at the softly glowing mess coating his palm for a moment before wiping it off on his pants. This pulled the fabric across his own erection. He did his best to ignore it. He’d already had his turn. Not that it wasn’t incredibly distracting, but he was more concerned about Papyrus.

Out of that concern, Sans withdrew his power, leaving Papyrus able to move freely once more.

Fast as a striking viper, Papyrus turned on him and slammed him flat to the ground.

Dazed and knocked breathless, Sans blinked up the angel above him. The part of his mind that was truly demonic reminded him that this was his enemy who had him on his back. His sense of self-preservation reviewed that information, and offered up: Well, guess we’re dying, then. It’s been real.

Papyrus yanked his sweats down, and cool air tickled his cock. Skirts gathered up out of the way with one hand, Papyrus lowered himself, and cool air was replaced with slick heat.

Sans stammered something that was meant as a question, though he didn’t know what question. Words? What were those? He was still trying to catch up with the last few moments.

Papyrus didn’t reply, and wouldn’t meet his eyes. As soon as he was fully seated he started moving, setting a hard pace with no thought for his own comfort or Sans’ sanity. Aside from his soft grunts, there was only the rustle of fabric and the hushed whuff of flinching wings to break the silence.

Whatever Sans had been about to ask fell away, forgotten. His claws found their way to Papyrus’ legs, where they caught against the lacing of his sandals and slid up his thighs, disappearing under white linen to hang on for dear life to the angel’s hips. His feet braced against the ground, but there was no use trying to match Papyrus’ movements, and so he lay there, helpless and overwhelmed.

“Oh, god,” Sans blasphemed. Reeling, he kept his gaze fixed on Papyrus. Eye sockets shut, head thrown back, with his beautifully disheveled, sun-drenched wings outstretched to balance him, he rode Sans with single-minded focus.

Sans, despite being an immortal with no heart, was about to die of a heart-attack.

By some miracle, Papyrus came with an exultant cry before Sans could kick the bucket (or climax too early, which may have been worse). Between the rippling clench around his cock and the look of pure bliss on the angel’s face, Sans wasn’t far behind. Claws biting into those beloved hips and heels scraping furrows in the dirt, Sans fell apart.

He might have blanked out, he wasn’t sure. When the world finally stopped spinning, he pushed himself up onto his elbows, noting through lingering vertigo that his sweats were back in their proper place again. Even in the throes of an existential crisis, Papyrus was classy.

The angel sat beside him, staring blankly off at the water. His wings were a mess and his face was wet with tears.

Wordlessly, Sans sat up and hugged him, wrapping both arms and wings around him tight.

Papyrus let himself be gathered close, slumping in Sans’ embrace. After a moment, he sighed. “I-”

“Don’t,” Sans said, cutting him off. “It can wait.”

He hadn’t missed this part. He didn’t want to watch Papyrus shred himself to self-loathing ribbons over something he had every right to do, something that hurt no one. The crash was going to happen, like it or not, but Sans would do his best to postpone it.

“I’m sleepy. Let’s have a nap, or something.” Gentle but insistent, Sans pulled Papyrus back down onto the grass, wings still bundled around his torso like a blanket. He grinned, reaching over to pluck a blade of grass that was poking all the way through Papyrus’ jaw. “Unless you wanna try sleeping upside down in the tree? It’s more relaxing than it looks.”

Papyrus laughed despite his tears. “No, thank you.” Shifting in the cocoon of Sans’ wings to lay on his stomach, he curved his near wing over Sans. It blocked out the sun, leaving him in fragrant shade.

“You’re missing out,” Sans said, snuggling closer, “but okay.” His tail resumed its favorite place, anchored around Papyrus’ leg.

Papyrus drifted off within minutes, wing settling soft and heavy over Sans’ body. Sans watched over him, thinking about things he didn’t want to think about, and whispering inarticulate admissions that he didn’t want his friend to hear. It was bad enough that Sans could hear them.

For once, he had no appetite for sleep. Going to sleep would mean waking up later. He wasn’t sure what he’d wake up to, but he was sure he wouldn’t like it. Better to stay awake, and take what comfort he could in the here and now. What was it that the mortals said? Life sucks, and then you die. Or, in his case, life sucks, and then keeps right on sucking forever.

Sans pushed his own regrets aside. Later. Later, he could hate himself and Heaven and their whole farcical existence. There would be plenty of time for all that when Papyrus woke. His clawed hand found Papyrus’ slender one and curled around it, holding it loosely. He prayed, for whatever a demon’s prayer was worth, that the angel would sleep for a long while.


End file.
